Nameless
by Ridiculosity
Summary: The first name was expected - even welcomed. The second, on the other hand, left much to be desired. And Jim would never understand what it was about it that was compelling. [Soulmate AU: On one hand, the name of your soulmate, on the other - your enemy. Molliarty.]
1. Of Man's First Disobedience

**Okay, you know what? I blame whyimmathere. Go to her. She's causing people to convert to Molliarty, and she is responsible for this.**

 **On another note: she's lovely, this is dedicated to her, and it is MY FIRST MOLLIARTY.**

 **As always, I have to show off my #literariness by using #LiteratureReferences in everything. For the chapter titles, I originally wanted to use quotes from the Bible, but I've only read that up until Exodus, and I have virtually no memory of it. You're going to have to settle for the chapter titles being picked out of Milton's Paradise Lost.**

* * *

When the name first appeared on his arm, he grinned.

 _Sherlock Holmes_

The handwriting was interestingly posh, the right kind of calligraphy you expect from a school as expensive as his own, in fact. He waited for the second name to appear, but was not surprised when it didn't come. He had always thought his ' _soulmate'_ would be the person who was also his ' _destined'_ arch nemesis. It was fitting. Particularly since _Sherlock Holmes_ had been the name of the young boy who had interfered with the Carl Powers case, as far as he could remember.

Oh, the second name wasn't _expected._ But it came – just like the possessor of the name, it came slowly – it crept onto his arm, and he didn't realise it had placed itself there until late in the night, when he changed.

 _Molly Hooper_

Jim put away his toothbrush and prodded at his arm. As clear as the water that was flooding the sink. He looked at it interestedly, the messy, disorganised writing which was careful not to take up too much space – _saving paper, perhaps poor –_ and it occurred to him, that someone with so plain a name simply _could not_ be his ' _soulmate.'_

He was judging these two individuals through himself. Sherlock Holmes lived up to the mark – suitably insane, for one thing. Molly Hooper, on the other hand –

The plainness of the name made him wonder how mad she would have to be to be one of the names on his arm.

* * *

He had looked, almost certainly. The stupidly irritating name eluded him every time – Sherlock Holmes was easy enough to handle. Jim grinned at the thought of what a long, _long_ connection theirs was – simply _aeons!_ Molly Hooper, however, was impossible to catch. Her name was absolutely basic – one thousand Molly Hoopers paraded around Great Britain, attempting to solve their little problems.

But he had _faith_ in his little Hooper. He had faith that she would be insane – that she would be completely nuts, that she would want to murder, or torture, or hurt, or cause pain, or – if not that – cause chaos.

There was nothing lesser possible on _his_ arm.

* * *

Getting the attention of one of his ' _soulmates'_ was easy – Sherlock Holmes was easy to play games with, his sister was easier to gain the attention of (someone worthy of a spot on his arm, he was fairly certain – if Molly Hooper and her tiny handwriting wasn't scrawled all over it) – the cab driver ended up dead, and the word echoed.

 _Moriarty._

He was wondering whether Sherlock's arm tingled, whether he knew who was being spoken of and whether he was as madly in love with this as Jim was.

And yet –

Molly Hooper failed to show herself.

Jim had plans with Sherlock, and they didn't last very long. They culminated in death, and he was almost sorry he wasn't going to get to meet Molly Hooper.

And then –

It happened.

* * *

"Boss, here's the background checks for all of Holmes' men."

"His _men,_ Sebastian?" asked Jim, playing with his phone – throwing it up in the air, without a care of its fragility. "You give them more credit than their _due,_ my dear chap."

Moran rolled his eyes. "Read the files, for once."

"I simply _cannot_ be bothered to hear out how many more times Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan are going to fuck."

"Fine," sighed Moran. "There's someone new though. We overlooked her before because we barely ever saw her – but she's the Pathologist who seems to be responsible for Sherlock."

Jim continued to throw his phone up in the air.

"Molly Hooper, apparently."

The phone dropped.

"Oh, not _again,_ boss," said Moran.

"Easily replaceable," sang Jim. "Hand me the file, Sebby dearest."

"You just said you didn't –"

"I am _so_ changeable, didn't you know?"

"Fine," repeated Moran. " _Fine."_

He left the room, dropping the file on the table.

"Oh, and Sebastian?" called Jim loudly. "Full background checks on Doctor Hooper, please!"

* * *

He scanned the picture –

Brown hair, brown eyes, by the way genes seem to go – lab coat, _ridiculous_ taste in clothing, small, nervous, awkward, helplessly clumsy, clearly more intelligent than given credit for –

He was _surprised._

This didn't happen often. He would have been a little more at ease had Molly Hooper been a mass murdering psychopath, or perhaps a little more chaotic – like Little Holmes – or perhaps even the cold icicle that was Eldest Holmes.

Molly Hooper was a disaster of the first order, no doubt. Just not the disaster he had been expecting.

And while Jim Moriarty was a bit horrified that this underwhelming specimen had found her way on his arm, he was also, notably, _surprised._

It was an emotion he treasured, and one that Molly Hooper had clearly tapped into – with her plain, bland life, with two cups of tea every day, her penchant for cherry jumpers, her ridiculously unflattering pants, and her ability to make even the simple act of walking a balancing act which demanded applause at successful completion.

Even Sherlock Holmes had not managed to surprise him as much as Molly Hooper's reality had.

Moriarty had laughed when he saw pictures of her tripping or dropping articles which had been supposedly safely in her arms.

She was a _wreck._

There was always a perverse pleasure in watching disasters.

* * *

The background checks came through in a while, and he learned that funnily enough – there was nothing in Molly Hooper's past.

Well, figuratively speaking. She was born, her father had passed away when she was ten, her mother had shifted to her Grandmother's house to make ends meet, she came from a distinctly middle-class family, and she worked hard to get the scholarship that allowed her to finish medical school. Somewhere in the middle, she had taken a trip around Europe, she had travelled a little to present papers – but she didn't have much of a standing in the medical community as a lecturer due to her ineptness at speech.

Moran had managed to grasp his hands on one of her papers.

It was on close range gunshot wounds.

Molly Hooper continued to surprise him.

Oh, her every day was predictably entrancing – everything from her walk to the Tube, where she will drop her purse at least once – to her arriving at her workplace, leaving for lunch to pick up a coffee – _everything –_ was predictable.

And _yet._

There was something so delightfully refreshing about Molly Hooper, and he was unable to say what it was.

There was only one thing for it –

He needed a closer look.

* * *

She had a _vomit-inducing_ blog.

The kittens and the pink was bad enough, but the _comic sans_ really did it. He had to force himself not to abandon the whole thing altogether because anyone who used _comic sans_ was obviously his most _destined_ enemy. But that left Sherlock Holmes, and for some reason – he found himself more interested in laughing at this _mess_ of a woman than playing with Sherlock while he was busy with other cases.

And the game with Sherlock would be starting soon enough – so, for now, time to turn to the neglected half of the names on his body.

 _Coffee._ That was the 'reason' to meet her.

"Oh – um – hi," she said, blushing almost immediately. The tomato red _ought_ to look unappealing, but Jim found himself even more interested.

"Hello," he said. Who was he playing? Jim from IT. Shy, sweet, small Jim from IT. As small as the tiny Doctor Hooper.

"Um – I – well, um – you – you read my blog?" she asked.

The most _obvious_ question.

"Yes," he nodded with an appropriate amount of nervous, _Jim from IT_ gusto.

"Um – I'm – I'm sorry, I'm not very good at – well, erm – _this,"_ she said, looking helpless.

Oh, she was almost _adorable_ with that level of social awkwardness.

"That's alright," he said charmingly.

"No – I," she clutched her hands, and then released her fingers. "I work in the morgue, you know. Um – dead people – really good company, as you may have guessed."

Jim had to train himself to not guffaw at that one.

"Sorry – jokes – bad at _that –_ as well –" she said, cringing.

"Molly," he said, stopping her midway. He tilted his head. "I think it is _adorable."_

He was not even lying _entirely._

* * *

They went to the Fox for drinks, and she _hated_ it.

Oh, he loved this. He loved how uncomfortable she clearly was amongst so many people – and around him, a stranger. He loved how many times she was considering texting her best friend – Meena (Jim didn't do his research half-arsed). He loved how she swilled her drink more than drank it.

"I can see you're not quite comfortable," he mused.

"Bars – not really my _thing –"_ she said. "Not that –" her drink splashed. "Not that – I'm not – I'm not having _fun."_

He laughed a little. "It's okay Molly," he said. "We can go somewhere else."

Molly slopped a little more of her drink, and despite himself, Jim asked (perfectly in character, of course): "How do you _do_ that?"

"What?" she asked.

" _Drop_ things?" he continued, in perfect Jim from IT wonder. "You dropped three items very comfortably in your arms on our way over here alone."

She went red again. "I'm clumsy," she said.

This was _fun._

She was such an unalterable wreck. He had wondered whether she might not be that clumsy in real life, however – Molly Hooper was a mess.

"So, where would you like to go?"

"Um," she said. "Well – there's this place I go to for books, sometimes. Could we – erm – go there?"

A _bookshop._ How quaint. If this became any more stereotypical, he might find himself in a rom-com. Of course, he had never expected himself to be in a rom-com.

"Okay," he said. "Lead the way."

She smiled, putting her drink down eagerly. "You're going to love it. It's so _cute –_ it might just _kill_ you." She giggled, more to herself than for him.

Once again, Jim had to train himself not to laugh.

The tiny, twee pathologist made _death jokes._

 _And_ puns.

* * *

It was a small bookstore – nothing like a large, megachain with its coffee counters. Molly waltzed in with a surprising amount of grace, and said "Hi Barbara," to the unimportant twenty-something that was hanging about. Jim resisted the urge to shoot something.

She went – almost immediately – to the fantasy fiction section. Jim raised his eyebrows.

"Fantasy?" he asked. "You, a doctor?"

Her eyes widened. "I – well, you deal with death so often – it's just a nicer escape, I think. Although – um – I wouldn't say _always –_ sometimes – fantasy can be – really – really _dark._ Um – if you know what I am saying."

"Is it?" he asked. She liked how she shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably – two words could make her such a mess, it was just _so much_ fun.

"Um – have you read Harry Potter?"

Again, Jim raised his eyebrows. "No. I have heard of them, however. Children's books, aren't they?"

"Well," said Molly fingering the spine of a book, "Essentially – I suppose. But there's a lot of darkness _in_ them – Voldemort – the villain – he's not the only one, either. I like to think about how Harry Potter shows children the way – well, the way institutionalised power structures work. And Voldemort – erm, he taps into them – he uses the weakness of the Wizarding society and that's when you know – it's not the villain that's causing the – um, the problems. It's the society."

That was considerably more eloquent than he was expecting it to be.

"You'd like Game of Thrones," said Molly thoughtfully. "Politics and manipulation."

That intrigued him – _manipulation,_ she said. He was fairly certain he hadn't broken character even once while speaking to her, so the observation was doubly interesting. Jim was tempted. He mustered up the _Jim from IT_ gallantry: "Well, then I'll buy the first book of both."

* * *

And when the date ended, he kissed her quickly on the lips, and left – _appropriately nervous, of course –_ and she smiled, and looked perfectly incandescent.

It was nauseatingly enjoyable.

Oh, this was exciting. He loved playing a character, a character that would break her heart. He revelled in it – he had always known that there was going to be little difference between his soulmate and his enemy, and he loved that he got to fuck at least one of them.

Jim wasn't mad about sex, not like most people. He didn't kiss – it was a personal rule of his: kissing was off the table unless being used specifically by him to manipulate someone. But sex? Sex was never off the table, and never on the table either. He had never had a satisfying sexual encounter. The only one that came close was The Woman, and god knows what she was up to.

But he was looking forward to sleeping with Molly Hooper. It would be the coup d'etat that would satisfy all parties immensely – Sherlock in particular.

All of this culminated in one thing, and one thing alone:

He had to meet her again.

* * *

"You want _another_ background check on her?" asked Sebastian, surprised.

"Oh, _yes,"_ said Jim, the tips of his fingers touching.

"But _why,_ boss? Nothing has come up. She's as clean as – well, I dunno. No one is as clean as her."

"Must be something you missed," sang Jim.

"No, I've checked _everything._ I haven't done such a good check on John Watson."

"Oh, this _Won Jotson_ is thoroughly annoying to me. Focus on what I am telling you to do, Sebastian dearest. It's only me that finds it hard to believe that there is so little about her to be investigated, and you know what it is about my hunches."

"Jim, come on –" began Sebastian.

"Shh. Just do it, kiddo."

* * *

Their second date delighted Molly. She liked small coffee shops, unintrusive in nature. She was smiling a lot more, and Jim wondered what she would look like if she was wielding a weapon while she did that.

The small Molly Hooper delighted Jim. Oh, she was boring him to tears currently talking about her education – but she delighted him in many ways.

One of them was thinking about how fragile and deliciously _breakable_ she was.

His arm tingled at the very thought of it.

Molly had to be encouraged in almost everything apart from talking about the books she liked. He had to tune in to hear her talk about all that, and even found himself mildly interested when she started talking about Mary Shelley. Some sort of inspiration, one would argue.

She smiled, and Jim grinned to himself.

This time, when he kissed her, her lips parted just a little bit, and he found himself interested once again.

* * *

"Oh – hi, Jim," she said, blushing with pleasure when she saw him.

"Bad time?" he asked.

Her hands were half covered in blood. Jim licked his lips.

"Um – let me just – finish up – sorry, it went on a while. Do you mind waiting? You can wait outside, if you want…"

"No, it's alright, I'll stay."

She looked nervous about the proposal.

"I have one autopsy to finish."

"I don't mind your job, Molly," he said with the easy charm. And while Molly looked uneasy about this, Jim had other motives.

He wanted to see her conduct an autopsy.

* * *

Oh, Jim knew what he had been expecting.

It wasn't as if he wasn't familiar with autopsies. He had seen a few in his good days when he was still directly involved in the murders that he committed.

This wasn't any of that.

Once again, Molly Hooper surprised him.

The neatness of the autopsy made almost any other autopsy seem a little more like a chicken being carved on a dinner table. And although Jim was very good at carving (he was fond of cooking, if he had to admit) Molly Hooper wielded the knife better than him.

Jim felt the racing of his heart, and to his intense delight, found himself aroused.

Fucking Molly Hooper was going to be _extremely_ enjoyable.

Right before she got the call over how much _pain_ young Jim had caused around the city, and her face _crumpled_ into tears.

He had to remind Moran to bug her apartment. He didn't want to miss the reaction.

* * *

Jim was pondering the many ways he would like to kill Molly Hooper after the whole ordeal was over. He would have to see to it himself, of course. As someone who had a position on his arm, she deserved the best honours.

"You're going to love it!" she said, grinning at him.

 _Glee._

It was exactly at this moment that Jim wondered whether she wasn't actually the destined enemy. He had never considered the soulmate and enemy category mutually exclusive, but watching all of those teenagers _sing_ truly made him question his world order.

It didn't help that the gay teenage boys had something compelling about them.

He didn't know _how_ but he could swear Molly Hooper knew that he just had a _fondness_ for music.

Molly grinned at him as the episode finished. Jim tilted his head to one side while he looked at her.

"I like you," she said boldly. "You aren't put off by – well, you know how people normally are about someone who does – um – pathology – and you aren't put off by it!"

She seemed so genuinely surprised by that Jim wondered what she would do if he revealed what he was to her. She was a strange girl, this one – he was tempted to pull a gun on her and see what she would do.

The idea of a terrified Molly Hooper was breathtakingly arousing.

He kissed her, then – in his standard, _Jim from IT_ way. And almost to test it out – he increased the pressure, biting her lower lip and sucking it in a _not-so-Jim-from-IT_ way. Instead of being surprised, Molly Hooper responded with fervour, pulled back and smiled at him:

"You're a _really_ good kisser!"

Jim tilted his head to one side again.

When he reviewed the story in his head, he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that this was the point where the pretences stopped. He gripped her by the waist, dragging her on his lap, kissing her again as his arm tingled. Jim from IT would be interesting to play – particularly during sex – what was more interesting, however, was how much more Molly Hooper liked _Jim Moriarty._

Because as he bit into her neck Molly Hooper's mouth opened into an unmistakable moan.

He threw her down on the floor, without pretending to be gentle and comforting. Her eyes were bright, excited, curious, and Jim grinned at her. He gripped her thighs, unbelievably uncaring of whether or not she might bruise. _Jim from IT_ really ought to care about that.

" _Oh,"_ whispered Molly, arching upwards.

With a small growl, Jim tore through her shirt. The buttons popped easily – and Molly (for once) was the one who was surprised. But the brief flip between them over _surprise_ was righted almost immediately.

Molly Hooper's arms were blank.

She noticed where he looked and she went red.

"Um – I – didn't ever get any. Names, that is," she clarified unnecessarily.

Jim regarded her again.

"Then would you mind if I kept my shirt on?" he asked courteously.

"No – _no!"_ said Molly. "Of course – your – private affair – I wouldn't -"

"Dearest," said Jim softly; his arms winding behind her, unhooking her bra. "Be _quiet_."

And Molly Hooper could not speak words after that.

* * *

 **Love them reviews.**


	2. Give Not Heaven for Lost

**IMPORTANT AN:**

 **Okay, I know I normally update on a weekly schedule, but I'm literally smack in the middle of my exams. Not to mention the fact that my beta, Tingy, has been hurling insults at me for 'ruining her education' and 'getting her invested.'**

 **So, I'll be taking a ten day update schedule instead. And if I default, it's all because of the exam.**

 **And - I have never written Moriarty before. So if he seems out of character, or if he seems odd - DO REVIEW! I, for once, don't have this whole fic planned, and I'm basically playing it by the ear. Let's see where this goes.**

 **Last week was whyimmathere's birthday, and I didn't even know.**

 **GUEST 1 (In order of who posted the review earliest): Hahahaha, thank you. Yes, that is who Molly is - just the most wonderful mess. I love her so much. Your wish is my command :)**

 **GUEST 2: Thank you! And I will.**

 **GUEST 3: Thank you!**

* * *

Molly was smiling the next day, perfectly and utterly happy. Jim could see it in the way she made him breakfast, and she giggled noisily at everything he said, and said goodbye to him.

"Molly, erm – this is an odd favour to ask," said Jim, returning to _Jim from IT._ "Could you introduce me to Sherlock Holmes?"

She frowned, but nodded. "Of course!" she said. The tea in her hand spilled a little bit. "Oh, shoot," she said. "I'll text you when he comes in? He will today, probably."

He kissed her on the forehead and smiled, wondering exactly _what_ he should wear to meet Sherlock Holmes for the first time. " _Perfect."_

He had never expected Molly Hooper to be in the same room while it happened.

He had not really expected to enjoy sex with Molly. He had expected to enjoy the manipulation, the way she would break when she learned who she really was, and he had expected to see her cry. The disaster woman with her spilled coffee and stumbling sentences – unexceptional in every way – he had expected to enjoy fucking her almost as much as he enjoyed a day spent watching telly.

But fucking her was _fun._ She moaned, and she said his name so, _so_ sweetly. Her mouth around his cock had been an added bonus.

Jim looked forward to keeping her around. He looked forward to meeting Sherlock Holmes.

He had to tell Moran to bug the flat. Molly was going to have a major shock very soon and he was just being a good boyfriend. Keeping tabs on your girlfriend during her impending emotional breakdown was _very important._

* * *

 _Hey Jim, Sherlock's here, if you want to come! xMolly_

Jim grinned.

* * *

Oh, Sherlock Holmes was delicious. His perfect ignorance of Molly was heartbreakingly beautiful, and Molly's interest in him even more so. Heaven on earth, Molly Hooper had a _type_ – and that type seemed to be psychopaths and sociopaths of any order.

He had loved playing gay for Sherlock. He loved fooling him, and he absolutely _adored_ the way he said "gay."

"Nothing. Um, hey." He amended, fooling no one but _Jim from IT._ But that was okay, Jim from IT was a tone deaf idiot. Molly Hooper, on the other hand…

Jim left the room, lathering on the wistful looks towards Sherlock for all he was worth. He was _infinitely_ glad he asked Moran to bug the Morgue and the Lab and even Molly's apartment just to make _sure_ he didn't miss the reaction.

* * *

 _"_ _What do you mean gay?"_ came Molly's voice from the monitor. Jim giggled. _"We're together."_

 _Go for it, darling. Declare yourself._

 _"_ _And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."_

 _Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you dirty_ _ **dog.**_

 _"_ _Two and a half,"_ said Molly, determination on her small, pathetic face.

 _"_ _Mmh, three,"_ corrected Sherlock.

Oh, he _loved_ this. He wished he had popcorn. He wished Sebastian had the foresight for that.

 _"_ _He's not gay! Why d'you have to spoil – He's_ not _."_

 _Go on, dearest. Defend me. Defend yourself._

 _"_ _With_ that _level of personal grooming?"_

Jim paused for a small minute. Oh, Molly Hooper had picked up on Moriarty – but Sherlock Holmes had _not?_ The game was getting better and _better._

 _"_ _Because he puts product in his hair? I put product in my hair,"_ said the good Doctor Won Jotson.

 _"_ _You_ wash _your hair. There's a difference. No,_ no _– tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."_

Oh, Sherlock _was_ conforming to _stereotypes,_ wasn't he?

 _"_ _His underwear?"_

Unbidden, the image of Molly Hooper on his cock came to him.

 _"_ _Visible above the waistline – very visible. Very particular brand,"_ Sherlock reached for the dish, picking up what Jim _knew_ he would. _"That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here. And I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain."_

Molly stared, looked like she was on the verge of tears (Jim licked his lips) and she left the room.

He couldn't wait to see what she would do next.

Would she break down? Tell him it was okay to be gay? Tell him she accepted him? Tell him that she wouldn't mind trying to hook him up with Sherlock, but he seemed _very_ asexual. When she doubted herself, she bit her lip, and Jim could imagine it from the minute Sherlock said "gay."

* * *

"You are a _horrible_ person, and I _don't_ want to speak to you again!" said Molly, her fists clenched, her eyes _indignant,_ and her posture incredibly fiery.

Well. That was… unexpected.

She had come out of _nowhere_ to the IT department, and Jim had been immediately excited by her demeanour.

"What?" he asked, reasonably taken aback.

"I don't _care_ if you're gay," she fumed. "I don't care if you're bisexual, demisexual, pansexual or anything else on the godforsaken sexuality spectrum. I don't even care if you're a fucking _furry,_ Jim, I care that you went and left your number for Sherlock Holmes to find!"

"Wh – I'm sorry? What?" he will admit – he didn't lie very often to himself, after all – that he was quite _shocked._

"Jim – are you _new_ to dating?" asked Molly, some of her trademark gentleness returning. However, for once, it wasn't accompanied with kindness. If Molly had said these words to someone other than Jim in this tone, he had complete faith in them running for the hills.

 _Jim_ didn't say anything.

"I know a lot of people date a couple of people together – particularly in the early days. However, you had the _audacity_ to ask someone else out while I was _in_ the room! Not to mention a _friend_ of mine."

He frowned, unsure (a first) of what to say. In the end, he decided to use _Jim from IT_ to his rescue – "He didn't _seem_ very friendly."

"I don't care," she said shortly. "I _really_ dislike you at the moment, and I would appreciate it if you left."

Molly Hooper had _teeth._ And very _sharp_ ones, at that. Who knew?

* * *

Molly was _cross._ She was _irate._ She was _annoyed._

"You are _pining,"_ chuckled Meena.

"No, I am _not!"_ said Molly.

"Just because the pleasant man from the office ended up liking Sherlock more than you, is it?" asked Meena, handing Molly a plate of pasta.

" _No!"_ said Molly.

"Look, honey," said Meena, "He's not the best of the lot, even _if_ the sex was amazing. And you have to admit it to yourself that you were using him – just a little – to dangle in front of Sherlock. Besides, what do they say about a man you meet online? Either he's gay, or he's a serial killer."

Molly huffed.

"I only say things you need to hear," Meena sang.

"You needn't say them, you know," said Molly. "You could just say _nice_ things – like, he's a bastard for hitting on Sherlock while I was in the same room…"

Meena guffawed. "Where's the fun in that?" she asked. "Besides, _someone_ has to tell you. I'd rather it be me than Sherlock Holmes, who clearly has _no tact."_

And finally, Molly smiled at that.

"You should speak to him, Molly. You were a bit harsh. Maybe he's a bit in the closet, you never know."

Molly groaned, stabbing a pasta with conviction. "Do you _enjoy_ my misery?"

"Very much," nodded Meena with a little too much enthusiasm.

Molly's phone began to vibrate loudly and irritatingly. She fished it out of her pocket.

"Hello, Doctor Hooper speaking."

 _"_ _Doctor Hooper, this is Jennifer from IT speaking. We just wondered whether you had been in touch with Jim lately."_

"No, we – well, we argued – it's not important. What happened?"

" _His manager is wondering where he is, he hasn't been in for a while. Do let us know if he contacts you."_

The line went dead.

"Who was that?" asked Meena, mouth filled with pasta.

"Jim's office," said Molly in a small voice. "They can't find him."

Meena grinned. "Oh, trust _you_ to go and date someone who'd either get kidnapped or go on a crime spree right after thebreak up."

* * *

 _Several bomb threats in London later._

* * *

 _Jim, are you reading this? I'm sorry we argued and I don't mind if you're gay or not but where are you? Please, I miss you and I'm worried about you! Why aren't you answering your phone? And why aren't you at work? Your manager's going mental! Please! Just get in touch! Let me know you're okay!_

* * *

It was… quaint. How _adorable_ of Molly Hooper to think she had hurt him.

It was perfectly, amusingly, picturesque.

He could imagine her – with one of her friends, discussing the merits and demerits of everything she said. Deciding _exactly_ what to post. It was perfectly _adorable._

"Boss, DI Lestrade is heading to Molly Hooper's flat to give her the news," said Sebastian, entering the office.

"Sebastian, I could _kiss_ you!" said Jim with feeling.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. Jim _thought_ he heard him mutter something, but he didn't want to push the kid too much.

Jim turned on his favourite channel: Molly Hooper and her reactions to Jim Moriarty.

 _"_ _Molly, may I come in?"_

 _"_ _Yes Inspector – what's happened?"_ asked Molly anxiously.

" _Well, there have been a few developments concerning your boyfriend, Molly. Jim Moriarty?"_

 _"_ _Jim? What about him?"_ asked Molly, and Jim saw the long stretch of possibilities parade in front of her eyes, as she considered what horrible, _horrible_ things could have happened to him.

 _"_ _You know of the bomb scares in London?"_

 _"_ _Yes,"_ she said, and adorably, her voice caught in her throat.

" _He's been the one orchestrating that."_

Molly took a full minute. Jim laughed.

" _What?"_ she asked.

* * *

It was not possible. It was simply _not possible._ Jim could _not_ be behind those attacks – it felt beyond the realm of possibilities.

"What?" she asked.

"He was dating you – to get closer to Sherlock. He threatened Sherlock very recently, almost killed both of them, and got away towards the end."

Molly blinked.

"No – you must have it wrong, Inspector," she said blankly. "Someone else must have done that – Jim was not – he wasn't – well, he was a bit nutty, but he wasn't _insane."_

Lestrade was looking at her with so much pity, Molly wanted to smash something. How could she explain that Jim Moriarty had been someone _Toby_ had liked? That he watched _Glee!_ What criminal mastermind in their right mind watched _Glee?_

Oh, for heaven's sake. Meena's gay and serial killer line just took another meaning now, all things considered. Jim _had_ to be both.

"We need you to come down to the station to give a statement, Molly," Lestrade continued.

Molly nodded numbly. "Give me a second," she said. She went to her bathroom, staring at the mirror –

Jim was a criminal.

Jim was an honest to Gods, people killing _criminal._

Molly's first and intense desire was to call her mother and cry for a while. This was not a very good idea, seeing as her mother was not very fond of her job (it made her very uncomfortable) and would blame it on where she worked. But her mother – behind all the irritating, confusing, mixed signals she sent Molly about her very existence could also be genuinely _no-nonsense_ comforting.

Molly clutched her hair. What she wanted, beyond anything else, was to be able to call her father. Molly's dad wasn't someone who had been as straight-forwardly cruel as her mother – he was much gentler, and his comfort was kinder. Molly wished she could call him.

And there was this horrible – _awful_ – instinct inside her to call Jim. Not _Jim, the criminal._ Jim the man who could see her discomfort in large crowds, and make her talk about the books she liked. And she knew that wasn't real, because Jim was not that. Jim was a gun wielding, threatening London with bombs villain.

She washed her face, rubbing her cheeks with the towel as if to wipe the instinct off her mind.

* * *

Jim looked at her come back from the police station on the monitor.

She took a deep breath, curling up on the sofa.

Jim's curiosity increased. Was she about to cry? To scream? To stab herself in the eyeballs? The last one would certainly be very surprising. Then again, all of Molly Hooper's reactions were excessively surprising.

And she cried, certainly, she did. Jim loved it. He felt like he hadn't given Molly Hooper what she was due – she deserved more, especially since Sherlock was getting so much more. Molly deserved a good manipulation! She deserved to have heart crushing defeat placed on her feet by him. She had never done anything to prove that she wasn't worthy of it, except perhaps use comic sans for her blog.

It was too obvious to send her messages that would cause her discomfort. Molly Hooper's reactions to Jim had surprised him so often he was looking at the least possible scenario where she was concerned. If he sent her a sinister message, she might _actually_ go and tell someone who would listen.

Molly stopped crying at this point, and without thinking, Jim leaned into the monitor.

She pulled out her phone, calling someone clearly on her speed dial.

" _Hi_ ," she said, her voice still warbly. Whoever it was responded, and Jim wondered just what they said.

" _No, I had a really bad day,"_ she said. " _Sure. I'll come. Could you – um – get something to drink? No, not wine, mum, please. It's too sour. Get some beer, please. Or rum."_

 _Mum?_

She cringed at whatever her mother said. Jim drummed his fingers impatiently.

" _I – it's not_ masculine _to drink beer, mum! Just – I – fine. Wine and meatloaf it is. Do you want me to pick something up? I can – well – um, there's this really nice bakery – erm – tarts? Okay. Yes, okay. Okay. Thanks. I'll be there."_

And she left, almost immediately.

"Oh, Sebastian!" said Jim loudly.

Moran entered the office. "What?" he asked.

"All the bakeries around Molly Hooper's home, if you can," said Jim in his best impression of politeness.

" _Why?"_ asked Moran.

"I fancy _tarts,"_ said Jim.

"Okay, which ones?" asked Sebastian impatiently.

"I'll get them myself," said Jim, swinging out of the chair. "You are too kind."

"You have a meeting with the drug cartel from Spain!" said Moran, as Jim left the office.

"I'm sure you can handle it, baby," called Jim over his shoulder.

He was sure Moran swore behind him.

* * *

Jim sat in the corner of the bakery, watching Molly enter. It wasn't very hard to guess which one she went to regularly: Molly Hooper's preference obviously led her to a bakery called _The Bun in the Oven._ It was out of the way enough, had good ratings, and Jim was sure she picked it because of the joke in the name. She smiled at the girl who was behind the counter, asked her about her college – to which the girl babbled unnecessarily about some English courses that she was doing. Molly smiled, and bought some strawberry tarts.

Jim waited – she was still in earshot as he drawled, "five lemon tarts, please."

She paused, turned, looked at him – and continued to stare.

Jim grinned at her, grabbed his own bag of lemon tarts, and whistled inconsequentially.

"Yo –" began Molly, unsure of herself. Jim stopped her by interjecting:

"You shouldn't keep those tarts waiting, little one."

Molly clutched the box.

He left the shop before she could react – he wanted to see what she would do, no doubt, but God help him if he didn't want to make this difficult for her.

* * *

Molly was flushed throughout her ride to her mother's.

There were a number of thoughts that occurred to her, the first of which was _what_ she should do. Jim had certainly picked the right time, the right minute, and the right phrase. No one would believe she'd simply stumbled upon Jim Moriarty in a bakery, not anymore than they would believe that he'd told her to enjoy her tarts. She almost wished he had done something a little more like a villain – sent her suspicious flowers, perhaps a sinister message through an expensive gift. All of those things would have been excellent, since she'd be able to take them somewhere – tell someone.

She had to _try._ She didn't know whom to go to, but she had to _try._

The first and obvious option was Sherlock – but she hesitated. Not just because the situation was absurd, but also because Sherlock… didn't look like he might believe her. It was absolutely nonsensical – _she,_ the pathologist in the morgue really _didn't_ have anything to do with Jim Moriarty's world any more than she did with Sherlock Holmes. She wasn't _meant_ to be part of this story – and she didn't understand why Jim was dragging her in. _If_ he was dragging her in, that is.

She clutched the box again, unsure of what to do.

Greg it was, then. There was nothing else for it. If she got dragged into some sort of convoluted plot to take over the world, she really had to try her hardest to stop it from happening.

As soon as she was resolved to do that, she decided to call him.

She picked up her phone, scrolling through her contacts without thinking about any kinds of implications. She wanted this over with. She wanted out of this story.

The phone rang thrice before Lestrade picked it up.

"Hi!" said Molly breathlessly. "Hey, Inspector, what's up."

" _Hi Molly,"_ said Greg. " _What's going on?"_

"Um – something weird happened – well, just about now. I was – erm – I went to a bakery nearby… they have lovely tarts, you know – my mum and I love strawberry –"

" _Molly?"_

"The thing is – Jim Moriarty – he was there."

That's when Greg seemed to be paying attention.

" _What do you mean?"_ he asked.

"He was there – and he bought some of his own – lemon tarts, I think. Erm – not that – not that _that's_ important. Anyway – he told me to enjoy my tarts, and he was gone."

She could hear Greg _breathing_ on the other end of the line.

" _I'm – not sure what to do with that information,"_ said Greg finally.

Molly laughed hollowly. "Join the club."

" _Was he waiting for you?"_

"No, I don't think so."

" _Okay – I'll add it to the case file, I guess. What's the name of the Bakery?"_

 _"_ _The Bun in the Oven,"_ said Molly. "It's quite cute."

" _Right."_

Molly knew what he was thinking, because she was thinking the exact same thing: there was an obvious possibility that Jim Moriarty just _really_ liked lemon tarts.

* * *

Jim Moriarty really liked lemon tarts.

"You should try one," he told Moran.

Moran glared at him.

"You know they're going to come tomorrow to speak to you and they won't be happy?" asked Moran.

"They have nothing on me," said Jim, waving a tart in Moran's face.

* * *

Molly's dinner with her mum was disastrous.

Everything from Molly's adolescence was retained in excrutiating detail by her, and she clearly thought that was responsible for Molly's current nonchalance for death. And yes, her mother _did_ call it a "perverse fascination" with death, one which helped nothing except her ability to come in harm's way from criminal masterminds.

It was this simple act of being taken seriously – of being _important_ enough to her mother that made Molly come to her. Unlike anyone else, Mum would take her seriously. Mum hated everything about her – from her jumpers to her job to her cat. But if Molly was scared, her Mum would not think it was a overthinking on her part.

"Be careful, Molly," she'd warned her. "I think this man might start stalking you."

Molly had laughed. "No, Mum – he was after Sherlock. You know – that – um, the man, that comes to the morgue?"

Molly's mum had regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Yes," she said. "It's this godforsaken morgue that is the source of your problems. That, and your father. I told him – I _told_ him a thousand times – he never listened –"

"Mum!" Molly stopped her.

All in all, when Saturday came, Molly couldn't be more grateful she had the weekend off. She curled up in her bed, took out her favourite fantasy fictions and holed up in her apartment. Comfort reading, that's what she needed. It helped that the worlds she entered didn't often have the baggage from this one – with the mundane heartattacks that Molly had to autopsy, or the boring everyday paperwork. They didn't even have the bloody soulmarks, as well.

It was such a romantic concept, a soulmark. It was intrinsically fucked up, of course – as was proved in the case of her mum and dad, but it was a romantic concept. People liked believing in one ultimate love that destroyed all the others. It was what so much of YA capitalised on, after all.

She preferred not to think about it – her own arms had been so ridiculously blank for so long, she'd been a pariah in school. Everyone started getting them around sixteen, with the exception of a few kids, and _of course_ those who didn't were the laughing stock of the school.

It had fascinated Molly to no end – she had devoured study after study on the soulmark concept, everything from the sociological analysis, to literary analysis, to scientific studies. There was one problem – while literary and sociological analysis was vast and unending, scientific studies were scarce. One of the problems with scientific studies was that it was _such_ a taboo for so long to try and dissect the soulmarks.

The public outcry was irritating, especially since words like "destiny" and "fate" were thrown about like nothing else. It made the job harder, and it made getting funding much harder. The laws didn't help, either, since the long history of very determined sexism had allowed legislators to make a world where women were forced to be with men who were certainly not soulmates.

It was better not to have the mark, altogether. Molly's initial curiosity over the way they functioned faded eventually because the study of soulmarks (even while she was growing up) was a ridiculously exclusive business, and the fact that she hadn't gotten her own was definitely a _mark_ against her.

Besides, the dead didn't care if she studied the names on their arms with fascination.

* * *

Jim watched the tiny Molly Hooper curl up in her bed, take out a book and read all day. At one point, she got up, bathed, made her bed, and returned to the exact same position.

Now was as good a time as any to read some of those books he'd bought with Molly.

* * *

 **Reviews are love!**


	3. Of Things Invisible to Mortal Sight

**TEN DAYS, AS PROMISED.**

 **Soon, exams will be over. SOOOOONNN.**

 **Also, hiking up the rating after this chapter. Fair warning. :)**

 **Tingy is a very belligerent gift, and BurningLostStars posted a new fic which was AWESOME! (I'm endorsing you, friend)**

* * *

"So," said Sebastian.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Molly Hooper," he continued.

"Who?" asked Jim politely.

Sebastian sighed. "Boss, you know who I am talking about."

"Oh, that girl in the morgue? Very sweet, a bit nervous, what about her?"

Moran let out a deep breath.

"What _are_ you trying to do with her? Just so I know, of course. I need to know if you're ever going to take off for tarts in the middle of meetings."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "What makes you think I'll warn you?"

"Humour me, sir," said Sebastian.

"Such loyal things," mused Jim. "I was thinking of getting myself one – Sherlock Holmes has one, it's only fitting."

"If you're talking about John Watson –"

"Oh, _yes._ The positively fascinating John Watson – wears his heart on his sleeve, soldier, through and through – companion to Sherlock Holmes, which would really qualify him to some pedestal of interest," said Jim. "John Watson is hardly interesting enough to merit observation, Sebastian. You should know, you've worked for me for a while now.

"That's why I am asking, sir," said Sebastian tersely. "The people I observe for you don't exactly have happy endings. I'm the last person to care about this Pathologist, but I would like to know when she's going to end up dead. Besides, why should she be any more interesting than John Watson?"

"No, I know what you're thinking. 'How can Jim Moriarty _actually_ like lemon tarts? Does he not find them sour?' To which I say, you have no taste, Sebastian Moran. A lemon tart is a perfect combination of sour sweetness."

Moran rolled his eyes. "You know that's not what I'm asking."

Jim frowned mockingly. "How _shocking."_

"Jim, what are you planning here?" asked Moran, finally.

Jim would have liked to scoff audibly, but that required effort _._ "Is it so _horrible_ that a man may want to court a girl? You needn't worry about yourself, Sebby, you'll always be my number one."

Sebastian rolled his eyes again. "Look, sir, I just need to know where you stand with this whole thing. I'm not very keen on having to clean her body up one fine day thanks to your obsession."

Jim paused, leaned back in his chair.

"You ever like someone, Seb?"

Moran was obviously startled by this. "No," he said. "Why?"

"Liar _,"_ said Jim.

"Well, obviously we all like someone at some point, sir," said Moran tersely. "But look at the lives we lead – we fuck up. What we like is always fucked up."

" _Exactly,"_ said Jim with a little bit of relish.

"What are you trying to say?" asked Moran slowly.

"Molly Hooper deserves a good fuck up," said Jim. "The world has neglected her far too much. Is that going to be enough for you, dearest?"

Moran watched Jim intently. "Alright," he said. "Be careful. The game's only fun when you play with players who know they're in it."

He left the office. Jim smiled, steepled his fingers together and watching the door shut slowly.

"Such loyal creatures, really. I should get myself a live-in one."

* * *

It didn't take long for Molly to start feeling like an idiot afterwards, obviously. Behind all the shock and horror there was this part of her – this slightly scared part of her – that was somehow _aware_ of what Jim Moriarty had done. For some reason, the silly Jim that she had met didn't seem a far cry from Jim Moriarty, and that's what scared her more. This was helped by meeting Jim in the post-fall-from-grace version.

April melted into May, and Molly found herself with another pile of paperwork, more research to do, a couple of robberies gone wrong, and more murders. Bart's had started giving her the really mangled cases, for some reason – while the gesture was appreciated, she was swamped in work. Of course, this distracted her from Sherlock Holmes and even Jim Moriarty.

There was a joke Molly had been meaning to crack about the whole affair but had refrained out of a sense of propriety. Eventually, however, it had to be said and thankfully it was said to Meena rather than someone who would most certainly think she was losing her mind.

"Since I found out on the first of April that he was lying to me, you could say he April fooled me."

Meena opened her mouth, shutting it again almost immediately.

"I honestly don't know why I am friends with you," she said finally.

"Weren't we _all_ thinking it?" asked Molly.

"Most certainly _not,"_ said Meena. "I was perfectly happy, thinking about what I had for breakfast, a little bit about work – and the snack I have to have in the middle."

"Speaking of work, how's your research going?" asked Molly sobering up quickly.

"Terribly," Meena groaned. "Now that we have the permits, people are kicking up all kinds of other fusses. Something about propriety and what not – I swear, there's going to be protests soon. Such a lot of the staff has backed out – I honestly don't know what to do."

Molly patted Meena on her back. "I'm sure you're going to be fine," she said.

"It's because of the bloody taboo around the whole thing, Molls, I don't think we can solve this unless we are relentlessly persistent," sighed Meena. "You know how it is. Everyone thinks that deconstructing _destiny_ is the worst thing that could happen – that if you changed where you lived, what you did, the names on your arms could change. You can't have that, especially not with heterosexual couples who have been given _Destiny's goddamn sanction to fuck."_

"Those heterosexuals," said Molly comfortingly.

Meena glared at her. "I have the research to back up my study! The Harvard did one recently – the names are most certainly not destiny based, even if it does factor into it. They seem to depend on your situation, partly on the environment, and especially on where you live."

"I know," said Molly. "It was dicey, anyway. I remember reading about it in eleventh grade, I think. You remember that class on Biology? Mrs Stratford and that chapter on being in-tune biologically."

Meena snorted. "Of course I remember. Theories like that gave racism sanctions if Destiny pronouncing the heterosexuals holy wasn't enough."

"I actually was writing a paper on that recently – death and the biologically-in-tune myth."

"Hah," said Meena. "Good luck."

"I work with dead people, no one stops me," said Molly primly.

"Good luck anyway. Destiny is not on our side, you know. I think the whole thing is decision-based," said Meena. "It's been debunked that this is destiny speaking, because names change. I know it's not just the environment – I think it depends on the person also. That's why people like you don't have names well into their thirties."

"Are you saying I could still get names?" asked Molly sceptically.

"It's not unheard of," said Meena. "I think _your_ problem is that anyone could be one of the names on your arm. If you'd made the right decisions, I'd have been one of them. Obviously the better name, honey."

"Right," scoffed Molly.

"You wait," said Meena. "A day will come when Mr Pompous is going to be on your arm and you won't know what to do. And it'll be all because you made the decision to be a Pathologist."

Molly's mother wasn't the only one with objections to her job. Meena had very different objections, of course, but objections nonetheless. Molly's best friend disliked Sherlock Holmes, and she had never met the man. Jim Moriarty strengthened her belief in the job of Pathologist attracting the strangest men, and strange men were what Molly had a predilection for.

According to Meena, ever since she had seen Molly Hooper fall for Bobby Blackwell resident school weirdo, she had known that Molly was doomed.

"You can't deny the correlation, Molly," said Meena. "The dumbfucks you met before this job, at least, weren't serial killers or sociopaths. Of course, most of them were a healthy amount of toxic regardless – but you have to be something else to fall for a criminal mastermind."

"I didn't _know_ he was a criminal mastermind, Meena," said Molly, exasperated.

"No, but I _know_ you did," said Meena. "I know _you._ You have a _type."_

Molly rolled her eyes. "Is that so wrong?" she asked, sitting down next to Meena, glass of wine gripped in her hand.

Meena's eyes widened. "Look at you," she said patiently. "You complete wreck of a woman – you _cannot_ justify falling for a criminal mastermind. I know that you don't care about social propriety a lot, but there are _limits._ Criminal masterminds are one of them – you should be writing down everything I say, otherwise, you won't remember."

Molly grinned. She got up, wandered over to the kitchen counter and picked up a set of post-its and a pen. "Here," she said, thrusting it at Meena. "I'll stick it on my fridge."

Meena smiled back, and wrote in large, scrawling letters:

 _DO NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH CRIMINAL MASTERMINDS AND/OR SOCIOPATHS_

"It's a start, Molly, but I fear you're a lost cause," sighed Meena, getting up to slap the post-it on the fridge.

"Better than the lecture I received from Mum," said Molly, sitting on the sofa.

Meena frowned – very slightly. "What was it this time?" she asked.

"The usual," said Molly distastefully. "Whole parade of everything – from grandmother to dad to my job to my jumpers."

Meena gave her a one-armed hug. "I have a _very_ ugly jumper for you," she said consolingly.

Molly raised her eyebrows. "What pattern?"

Meena's grin widened. " _Ducks."_

"Amazing," sighed Molly.

* * *

The boss was obsessing again.

Sebastian didn't normally care when he did that, but it was getting a little out of hand. Particularly for a woman who seemed to do nothing more interesting than stick around at Grocery stores, or bookshops, or cafés. Not a single backroom drug deal had taken place while surveying her, not a single secret murder. Nothing out of the ordinary – not to mention the fact that her background checks repeatedly came up empty.

It wasn't as if Sebastian hadn't seen this before, it was just disconcerting seeing it happen with this tiny pathologist who seemed to be a fundamentally _boring_ person. He supposed that was what the problem was – the boss loved anomalies of any kind, and this was certainly one of them. Albeit a boring one (at least, for Sebastian).

Repeatedly, he'd caught the boss reading _Harry Potter_ of all things. He'd seen the movies, of course, but he'd never thought of _the boss_ as someone who would care for that kind of trivial bullshit. It didn't help when he asked him about it, because he just waved Sebastian away, with a trite, "Go away, Moran, can't you see that they're trying to save Buckbeak?"

Whoever the fuck Buckbeak was. Moran had to admit to having seen only the first two movies.

"Sebby," said Jim. "I'm going out."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. It was most definitely something to do with Molly Hooper because everything seemed to be. Idly, he noticed Molly Hooper had gone to that bloody bakery again. _What next_ , thought Sebastian sourly, **_chocolate_** _tarts?_

* * *

Molly hummed to herself as she swung her grocery bag. Since it was a Friday night and she didn't have a weekend shift this time, she had decided to treat herself by baking over the weekend. Of course, this involved picking up groceries galore – since she couldn't stop herself. She had picked up everything from white chocolate to cooking chocolate to chocolate chips, baking powder, cornstarch and whatever else she could find.

Baking weekends were her way to relax. Meena loved them because she got an unsolicited number of baking items which she would finish within the day, not matter how much Molly reprimanded her. Her ostensible excuse was that "fucking _hell,_ Molly Hooper, _stop denying me the simple pleasure of eating an entire cheesecake in one sitting."_

However, she came to _The Bun in the Oven_ to pick up some tarts for dinner tonight. She was making a chicken, and she liked having a little dessert sometimes. She didn't have time to bake today, so this was a good compromise.

"Strawberry tarts, Jen?" she asked.

"You got it, Molly," said Jenny. "Thanks for those books, by the way. You were right, they did add a lot of dimension."

"No problem. When'll I see them again?"

"I'll hand them over tomorrow?"

"Cool," said Molly. She waited as Jenny packed her tarts.

She felt a breath at the back of her neck, careful and deliberate:

"So… lemons?"

Molly promptly _screamed_ and swung her grocery bag with a full frozen chicken at the perpetrator.

 _Thwack._

"I must say," sang the voice, remarkably uncaring in the face of a full, frozen chicken. "I _should_ get used to you doing unexpected things."

Molly was breathing heavily.

"There, there, baby," he said. "Are you alright?"

Molly blinked. "Why are you _here?"_ she gasped, finally.

"Sir, can I get you some ice for your eye?" asked Jenny worriedly. "I'm sure Molly didn't mean it – you caught her by surprise."

"Jenny, he's _fine,"_ said Molly with unusual vehemence. This, of course, had Jenny shying away – just a little surprised.

"Want me to take care of her?" asked Jim pleasantly. "I'm sure Moran can come on short notice, he'd have her in an instant –"

" _No!"_ Molly cut him short, horrified.

"Oh, very well. She's an idiot, though. You really ought to give the word, dearest –"

"Stop calling me that!" said Molly, flummoxed, yet again, by his presence. "Jim – what the hell are you –"

"I think I owe you another date, don't I?"

Molly glared. "No – I – Jim! I broke up with _you."_ She paused. "And _also –_ I am _not_ arguing the semantics of our relationship – we – I – _you were lying,_ for crying out loud! I cannot sit in a bakery ordering strawberry tarts and discuss who broke up with whom with a criminal mastermind!"

"All the more reason, dearest," he said with a grin. "Can I walk you home?"

Molly was mentally considering her options.

"You can't hurt me while I am aware," he promised her. "And I doubt that you should call anyone. I'd _hate_ to have more people murdered, you know?"

Molly struggled with herself. "What do you _want?"_ she asked again, for the final time.

His eyes were glimmering, and Molly would be an idiot if she wasn't scared.

"The pleasure of your company," he said slowly.

Molly clutched her grocery bag.

"Your tarts, Molly?" asked Jenny, winking at her. It was obviously because of Moriarty – and Molly didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. She _could_ leave a message with Jenny ( _Hi, Jen, the man I am with is not a potential love interest but a criminal mastermind, call the police, XOXO Molly)_ , but that would be the _most_ obvious thing to do.

Well. At least she had tarts.

* * *

Molly was tongue tied on their way back to her apartment. Jim was a perfect gentleman, which was highly disconcerting, if not worrying. He even took her bags from her, although that _might_ be because he didn't want to be hit on the head by a chicken again.

Molly opened her door, edged in, and called for Toby. The cat came in, rubbed himself across Jim's legs (which mortified her. Her _cat_ liked a criminal mastermind. Of all the embarrassing things that could happen, this was right up there with dropping her cards on stage and tripping when she had to give her graduation speech).

"Are you worried that the cat likes me?" he asked slyly.

Molly nodded, unable to say much else.

"Cats do like me," he said. "More of a _cat person,_ me."

Which was just bizarre, so Molly didn't add anything. She quickly began to empty out the grocery bag, which just gave Jim another excuse to help her out and be _gentlemanly._ She had no idea what he was playing at, of course, but she didn't say anything as she saw him put the milk in the fridge.

 _Bizarre._

"Look, not that – this isn't – um – _nice,"_ said Molly finally, as she pulled out the chicken from the bag. "It's _very_ nice, believe me. But, - erm – don't you have some countries to bomb, maybe? I dunno – drugs to handle or something?"

He chuckled. "And if I did?" he asked. "Would you really like to deny the people who are about to die these extra few hours?"

Molly went red. "I – you – _Jim!"_ she said.

"Honey?" he said.

"Don't – why – what on earth are you doing here? And don't _say_ I caught your fancy! I'm too boring – I know I am, I hang out with Sherlock, remember?"

He laughed again. "Make your chicken. Your full chicken. Why don't you get it cut, tell me?"

Molly took a deep breath, returning to her chicken. "I like cutting it myself. It's like an autopsy – a little."

She had a very strong feeling that he was giggling to himself.

* * *

Jim didn't say anything as she ate. She felt scrutinised by him – and it was odd, because not once did he look like he was examining her. He ate the chicken, complimented her cooking, went to unpack the strawberry tarts himself, politely handed her one and started eating his own.

Yet, Molly felt like prey, having a meal with the predator. Wolves didn't go around chatting up little girls – not unless they intended to eat their grandmothers along with. Molly felt the urge to politely tell him that no, her grandmothers from both sides were very dead.

She got up, strangely balanced and not shaky – picked up his plate, and went to the sink. He walked behind her, with the glasses. As Molly put the plates in the sink, she became aware of his arms pinning her to the counter.

"Um," she said, without turning around.

"I think this is enough domesticity _,_ don't you?" asked Moriarty.

"I don't know what you mean," Molly said. "I – I'm not the one who followed me home. I mean – that doesn't make sense – but you know what I mean."

His hand gripped her wrist.

"I'm going to kiss you," he informed her, turning her around with one quick twist.

"I – well – what do you want from me?" she whispered – pressing herself to the sink.

"Can't kiss a woman without asking permission," he said.

"How ethical of you," she snapped.

He waited.

"Why?" she asked.

He hummed to himself, waiting.

She shifted between his arms, attempting to find a path of escape. Of course, there was none, but it gave him a good excuse to hold her closer. Molly's breath caught in her throat as he leaned down to kiss her. _Jim from IT_ had been a very good kisser – but Jim Moriarty was terrifyingly good.

And she hated herself for that – she hated that she wanted it. That she would have kissed him regardless, and she knows in some horrible corner of her brain that it was this _realisation_ that he was hoping from her.

She could taste his lips – his teeth clacked against hers with force when he kissed her. She felt his tongue as it swiped across her bottom lip, and groaned to herself almost instinctively. She felt a tingle run down her spine, and she nearly stopped breathing when his mouth sucked on her neck.

He spun her away from the sink – blindly, Molly felt the counter on the other side press against her thighs. Jim hoisted her up, and Molly paused, marvelling at his strength.

"You – Jim – you can't –" she protested feebly.

"Are you going to stop me?" he asked.

She swallowed, shaking her head.

"Good," he said. His hands gripped her thighs, and Molly briefly wondered why she didn't wear skirts more often. The pants were an impediment to the cause, whatever the cause was. Of course, this was pushed to the back of her head as her shirt was being demanded from him. Before she could help him with the buttons, there was a distinct sound of popping.

"Oh _,"_ she sighed as he sucked on the curve of her breast. "I _liked_ that shirt."

"It's quite hideous," he informed her between her gasps. He sucked on her gently, and Molly writhed beneath him.

She could feel his hand at the back of her head – his fingers, laced into her hair, pressing her further into his lips as he kissed her again. Jim Moriarty was attempting to _murder_ her with his stupid _kissing._

Molly _liked_ sex – she liked having sex, and she most certainly liked performing. But there was something so overwhelming about sleeping with Jim Moriarty – the one who had been _Jim from IT_ before – that she didn't know how to respond. She did, however, understand that she could not simply lie back and think of England.

She kissed him back – with fervour. Her hands roamed – across his shoulder blades, unhelpfully obstructed by his shirt. She felt the hair on the back of his neck – she tangled her fingers in his perfectly coiffed hair.

He stopped, almost immediately. She didn't know why, and she didn't understand the expression on his face. It wasn't honest, or manipulative – it was _calculating._ She _really_ didn't want to guess what he was thinking. He could be planning her murder, really, and she wouldn't be the wiser.

Before she could think about the implications of what she was doing, she was yanked off the counter with a lot more force than she was used to. Jim nearly tore off her pants, pushing her out of the kitchen. He dragged her into the bedroom, shutting the door and pinning her to it.

Did he just… _growl?_

He was animalistic, whatever he was. She almost wouldn't be able to care that he might murder her within a second with the way his hand pressed on her back. They went lower – and lower – and lower – until she could feel his fingers _actually_ tear her underwear off.

Who _did_ that? None of her real life, un-imaginary boyfriends had ever managed to carry that out.

"You're _thinking_ something," he whispered, his teeth on her earlobe.

"Um –" gasped Molly. "I'm fairly certain I've imagined you."

"Oh, is it?" he asked slowly. Molly was in _trouble,_ she could sense it.

She nodded, biting her lip.

Jim didn't have very long fingers, but _oh,_ were they _skilled._ She could feel the finger enter her, stopping just a little short – very, very calculated to make her shut her eyes and her head swirl. If she could think of anything, it was about the sensation of his finger inside her, giving her just enough to drive her crazy. It hurt – just a little bit; she felt raw as he asked:

"So," his voice, betraying nothing. "Did you imagine me?"

Molly nodded sharply, unable to say something.

"Really?"

"Yes. If – if – oh, _god –_ if you were real, you'd give me _more_."

She was taunting a criminal mastermind into stimulating her sexually. She had a death wish.

He chuckled. She couldn't comprehend what was funny since she was in agony when a second finger entered her. This time, he plunged in and out – making her gasp for breath, her fingers desperately searching for something to hold on to for dear life. She saw stars when he was done, and he smiled again.

"It's a lucky thing women have multiple orgasms. This might have been over before it started." He tugged at his tie, loosening it – making Molly warm all over again.

She was suddenly very aware of her own nudity – everything except the bra had been discarded, and she was embarrassed by the plain cotton nature of the thing. She wasn't impressing him – not yet, he was testing her, she could tell. He was pleased with her reactions – but that was just _it._ He was the one testing them, the one dictating them.

It was her turn.

Feeling extremely determined very quickly, she used her fingers to his tie.

He looked amused.

She frowned, concentrating on the knot, untying the blood thing with as much dexterity as her fingers would allow. It didn't help that her addled brain couldn't comprehend _anything._

"What are you doing?" he asked genially as if he were asking after the weather.

"Indulge me," she said, whipping the tie off.

This was not a very everyday thing, right? It wasn't like every other day she got to have sex with a criminal mastermind – particularly when he wasn't lying to her about his identity. The lemon tarts, sure, she could manage every day – but this was new. She really owed it to herself to make him remember her.

She carefully tied the strip of cloth around his eyes.

"That is _interesting,"_ he drawled.

"For once, can you _not_ sass someone?" sighed Molly.

He was grinning. Molly ignored him, choosing instead to open the button of his trousers. She wrapped her hands around his cock – his erection evident.

"Little Molly Hooper, feeling _adventurous,"_ said Jim. Molly was surprised to note that his voice sounded very breathy. This was something she had experience in, at the very least. She knew that this – well, this she did well.

She bent down, her hands on his cock. She felt the heady thrill of what she was about to do hit her – her mouth touched his foreskin.

His hand was on her hair now, his eyes bound by the tie.

It was fantastic, watching Jim Moriarty take a deep breath as her tongue performed wonders on his cock. There. Now, at least, balance was restored to the universe.

"Molly," he snarled. She stopped as he backed away, tearing the strip of cloth from his eyes. He was breathing heavily. Molly got up, and for the first time, felt like she'd got the upper hand.

He hissed. The look on his face was carnal, he licked his lips and for a small second, she thought she could see him _enjoying._

He stepped closer to her, out of his trousers, and inching – almost terrifyingly – forward. "You should keep in mind," he said, "Men _don't_ have multiple orgasms."

Saying so he nearly lifted her off her feet when kissed her again. Molly felt his hands – across her back, as she arched towards him – they undid her bra. His tongue licked her nipple and she didn't have the working brain to comprehend whether or not this was a horribly dangerous mistake.

"I – um – bed – Jim, the bed," Molly breathed. "The bed."

"Patience is a virtue, Molly," he told her.

Molly decided to struggle with Jim's shirt instead. His suit was so _fashionable,_ she had to stop. "Jim – just, one second please?" she asked.

He stopped and looked at her with amusement. "What is it? If you're worried about your bra –"

"Oh, _no,"_ Molly protested. She frowned, struggling with the buttons. "I've never really slept with someone so well dressed," she said, by way of explanation. She focussed on the buttons again, wary of destroying a thousand pound shirt.

Jim Moriarty _laughed._

And without any reserve, too. Molly was distinctly taken aback, and she stopped midway.

"By all means," he said.

She blinked. "I'm sure you're _very_ rich, Jim," she said with some asperity. "But you _should_ value your clothes!"

"Oh, believe me, I _do,"_ he said with a grin. "It is, after all, _Westwood_."

Whatever the case, Molly took off the jacket (he must be wearing more on one night than her entire wardrobe combined!), folding it over her arms and returning to the shirt. Jim helped her not one bit – content to watch her as she careful kept both the items in a neat pile on her desk, he smiled as she returned.

It was when she returned from keeping everything away that she noticed.

Jim was grinning – his dark, horrible, twisted smile – looking at her expectantly. He had what Meena would call "a _drool-inducing_ torso," but that wasn't what Molly was looking at.

On his right arm, written in Sherlock's handwriting was the name, _Sherlock Holmes._

On the left arm, as clear as day – was her handwriting – _Molly Hooper._

"Oh," she whispered.

"Oh," she said again, as he advanced towards her, knowing very well that now Molly Hooper would not be able to breathe a word to anyone.

"Oh," she gasped as he gripped her wrist and pulled her into a kiss again. She allowed her lips to open, to feel the pressure of his, the flick of his tongue as he tasted the strawberry tarts she'd eaten.

"Mmh," he mumbled against her mouth.

For a mad second, Molly opened her eyes, looking at him.

His pupils were dilated.

Before she had a minute to process that, he pushed her.

She fell on the bed, watching as he towered over her, the light of the city against him. It was almost poetic, the image he made. He smiled at her then, deliberate and _terribly_ confusing. He crawled forward, biting her thigh ( _That's going to leave a mark,_ she thought belatedly), almost certainly causing her mind to go into frenzy again.

"Daddy's not in the mood for foreplay anymore, little one," he crooned.

"Okay," she said, unable to think of anything else.

"You're sure?" he said, his tongue wreaking havoc between her legs.

"Mmh-hmm," she nodded, gasping. Her hands reached out to his hair, twisted in them.

"Jim – _please –"_ she said.

" _Quiet_ ," he said.

Molly closed her mouth, her eyes shut as she attempted not to scream. Jim rose, towering over her again – leaving her _demanding_ for more.

Molly shivered, propping herself up on her elbows. "You are –"

"Very handsome, I know," he said. Out of nowhere, that _damned_ tie appeared – binding her hands together tightly. "Not too tight?" he asked pleasantly.

Molly shook her head quickly.

Molly held her breath as he bit her breast. She was going to have marks _all over,_ she thought to herself – and proper bruises, too. He had a bruise of his own, right where she'd thwacked him across the face with a chicken. She could feel the pressure building between them, the need to feel his erect cock inside her was growing with every time he teased her.

"You," he told her, breathing heavily, "are a disaster."

She concurred. And then any rational thought she had disappeared because Jim Moriarty was inside her. Her back arched upwards, hands unable to find adequate support for the intensity of the pressure. She nearly sobbed when he thrust inside her again, every single nerve of her body tingling.

She rocked with every thrust an incoherent tumble of words spilling from her mouth – until finally, she saw stars a second time.

And she screamed – incoherently, unconsciously, uncomprehendingly. Everything from his name to God's.

"Tut, tut," he tsked, "You shouldn't use the name of God in vain." Despite the coolness of his retort, he hissed sharply with his final thrust.

Jim shuddered just as much as she did – but he seemed too _terribly_ in control of his orgasm. He rolled off her, and she instinctively curled up with her back to him.

* * *

She was turned against him, and he could guess why. In fact, he relished in the thought of Molly Hooper questioning her sanity.

He wondered if she was going to say something, when suddenly – she shot up in bed.

Jim regarded her interestedly, when she whispered "Oh _no,"_ more to herself than to him.

She gripped her arm hard, her knuckles turning white. Jim _grinned._

He didn't need to ask her what had happened. As soon as one arm began to show the etchings which he could recognise as his own handwriting, he waited. She soon gripped the other arm, and Jim watched her growing horror as the names arrived:

 _Sherlock Holmes_

 _James Moriarty_

"Fantastic," said Jim, positively beaming.

She looked at him, half panic, half fear.

"I'll see you later, dearest," he said, picking up his pants and leaving the room.

* * *

Sebastian watched the boss from the corner of his eye.

"Yes?" asked the boss, noticing him.

"Where did you get that bruise, sir?" asked Sebastian.

The boss tipped his head back and laughed. Sebastian didn't think he'd said anything funny, especially since it was his job to make sure the boss didn't _die._

"A chicken, Seb," said the boss finally. "A _chicken_."

* * *

 _You have one new message_

 **Sebastian Moran**

D'you think the boss would fight a chicken?

 **Irene Adler**

… I don't know what this is code for, Moran _._

 **Sebastian Moran**

No, seriously. Do you think he would?

 **Irene Adler**

I doubt it. Not unless the chicken really riled him up.

 **Sebastian Moran**

… Do you think he'd _lose_ against a chicken?

 **Irene Adler**

… Go to sleep, Moran. Or destroy an economy. Whichever you prefer.

* * *

 **Honourable Mentions: the whole chicken scenario was a suggestion by Tingy. She also encouraged me to play around with the tie a little, since TIE KINKS ARE AWESOME.**

 **What was I saying? Yes, I love this ship. Please review!**


	4. Worse Of Worse Deeds Worse Sufferings

**HEY EVERYONE I AM SORRY FOR BEING LATE. EXAMS WERE AWFUL. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED IN MY ROMANTICS PAPER, BUT I AM SURE SOMETHING DID.**

 **Anyway hi yes good to be back. SEND ME PROMPTS ON TUMBLR, IF YOU ARE EVER FREE BECAUSE NOW I AM.**

 **Did you know Tingy got such a craving for lemon tarts after this fic, we actually made an expedition to a local bakery to buy some. The official statement on the matter is that lemon tarts are ruining our lives.**

 **Surinder: Hello are you from India because your name sounds very Sikh. Then again, Sikhs seem to be everywhere. ALSO THANK YOU! Very glad you liked it!**

* * *

 _You have one new message_

 **Irene Adler**

For heaven's sake, Moran, why are you asking _me?_ I know nothing about chickens, even lesser about your boss.

 **Sebastian Moran**

What do you think?

 **Irene Adler**

I am going to repeat this for emphasis, but don't expect me to do it again: _I don't know._

* * *

There were multiple things to attend to, of course. He had to wear his best suit, organise a few murders, a terror attack – steal some plans. Jim put on one of his favourite grey suits, with diamond cufflinks, and leather shoes. June was one of the few months that was hot in this godforsaken place.

It was _Saturday._

Ideally, of course, he'd spend the whole day not paying much attention to Molly Hooper – especially if her arms had already done what he had needed them to do. But he couldn't _help_ watching her wake up on Saturday morning, take a shower, stare at her arms periodically as if she could make the names vanish if she looked enough. At other times, she patently ignored her arms, choosing to hold her head in her hands.

Molly Hooper _knew_ whom she was sleeping with.

It excited Jim no end, how responsive she had been. He enjoyed himself solely because of how much _she_ enjoyed herself. Last time, Molly had held back – as most people do. Something about leaving an audience waiting, perhaps – people were absurdly, naively, ridiculously self conscious during sex. To Jim – the partner didn't matter, the situation even lesser.

Sex was a tool. The most effective one. It was a sad thing that Sherlock Holmes abstained, or he would have seen Jim's cock by now as well.

Well, his loss.

But Molly Hooper – Molly Hooper was _very_ pliable with sex.

And it was interesting – that when she _knew_ it was Jim Moriarty she was sleeping with, she gave it her all.

That moment of realisation – where she had used his tie for his eyes, bent down, and _sucked –_ it was one that Jim would cherish almost as much as Molly would. Molly had thought this was a _one-time_ thing – a rare occurrence, one which wasn't scheduled for repeat.

Molly gave in completely.

And Jim _loved_ it.

* * *

Jim was a thoughtful lover. He always thought about all the ways in which Molly would be torturing herself, and so he watched her from the cameras – making sure she was, you know – _safe._

He laughed.

Molly, on the other hand, after obsessing on and off about her hand, had taken to a new strategy, one which he had never really seen before.

Molly _stress baked._

And when she stress baked, she really stress _baked._

Jim had never seen a series of things being baked with such speed and feverish obsession. She would beat eggs while the previous dish would set, mix flour, bake cookies, bake muffins, make cheesecakes, brownies, chocolate cakes, fairy cakes, strawberry cakes, soufflés, mousse, whatever the hell those round things were which she was swallowing by the pound – the camera didn't allow him to see very clearly. If he had to wager a guess, he would say that they were macaroons.

When he was really stressed, he liked organising crime – some petty robberies of secret government plans, perhaps a little drug dealing, the occasional murder. It was very relaxing.

Molly _baked._

And she really was mad, he noted with some amusement. It was almost endearing, watching her whip up her third batch of chocolate cookies.

And then when she was done with that, she made fried chicken with coleslaw salad – ate everything while burying herself unhealthily in her books.

She was clearly done with her _Harry Potter_ reread, because she'd graduated to reading something else.

Which reminded him, he had to ask Sebastian to pick up the fourth book. Although he had been sceptical when he read _The Philosopher's Stone,_ her style had picked up. The second book could almost be called mysterious – he was sure he would have taken at least a week to solve it, as opposed to the children who took a good year. What a waste of _time._

Still, there was something appealing to the way the author had built up her world.

Jim may be a criminal mastermind, but he was a criminal mastermind of cultivated taste. Of course he could recognise good writing when he saw it – everything from Shakespeare to Vonnegut had prepared him for it. He liked Vonnegut's writing (what was wrong with a little dark humour?), and while Rowling didn't write with the same amount of healthy Audenian darkness, she was certainly a pretty good writer.

The third book, of course, was where her style had changed perceptibly. He preferred the way she wrote the third, and he suspected that if the style hadn't grown up with the readers, he'd have judged Molly's taste for a very long time to come.

In the absence of the fourth book – _Goblet of Fire,_ apparently, he chose to read the other book Molly had recommended. _Game of Thrones,_ it seems.

He texted Sebastian to pick up the fourth book, found himself with some time off. Everyone's gotta relax, once in a while. Molly who baked like the world was ending, Sebastian who took to Zumba classes (rather uncharacteristic, one would think – for a hitman, anyway) and Sherlock Holmes, who would recreationally use drugs. Even John Watson went drinking to escape Sherlock Holmes. Jim liked the thought of him reading in his free time – it would be such a surprise.

 _Self care,_ he thought to himself.

He had a book, he had a pathologist falling apart as she baked on his surveillance screens. He even had an unsuspecting Consulting Detective as he took more and more cases while Jim prepared the foundation for _Richard Brooke._ What more does a man want?

* * *

What _did_ that man _want?_

Molly had pushed the question out of her head, and ignored it entirely for an entire weekend as she baked for an army. Meena was going to be bemused tomorrow when Molly gave her a cheesecake, an assortment of cookies, some cake, and soufflés. She didn't quite know who else to give, so she was going to foist a lot of it on John as well. And perhaps a lot to Greg.

She stocked up her own larder at the end of Sunday, unsure of what to do.

Jim Moriarty was _not_ a young high school bad boy she should obsess over. The thought of plucking a flower with the standard he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not was hilarious. She didn't quite know what had brought _her name_ onto his arm, but there it was.

And then there was Sherlock – what was she supposed to do about _that?_

Even with the absurdity of his name on her arm, it was still ridiculous to think that she would even have a _shot._ Not a _chance._ Molly would laugh hysterically at the very thought of it if she could, except she really couldn't afford to – it would lead to a complete breakdown, all things considered.

And she couldn't _afford_ to lie in a heap on the floor, burrowing herself deeper into books and eating ice cream with an almost professional skill.

She couldn't _tell._

Of _course_ fate had to make it something of a _socially awkward_ situation, even when it came to destined lovers and enemies. Of _course._ One _had_ to be the nemesis of the other.

Which one was the one good for her? Which one was the one bad for her? Was it Mr. I-make-you-feel-like-shit Holmes, or Mr. I-am-most-certainly-a-death-wish Moriarty? Maybe it was a toss up between the two of them to ruin her life – she wouldn't be very surprised if it wasn't. Everything from Jim making her feel like she mattered to Sherlock making her feel like she was smart came into account when she studied the situation, and if she started doing that then she was going to fall apart all over again.

She was surprised she hadn't so far, she really was.

What she would really – _really_ like is to talk to Meena. To pull up her sleeves and declare that she needed to go to an asylum, and that perhaps Meena would be kind enough to visit her as her sanity disappeared at an alarming rate. For one thing, Meena would be able to tell her what to do about the mess – whether it was an asylum that made sense, or a well-defined plan to fake her own death and start a new life in New Zealand, or perhaps even to vanish into Tibet and meditate with some monks in an effort to regain a sense of self.

She could just _imagine_ how that conversation would go. _Hi Meena, here's some cheesecake and cookies, by the way, I got my names after I had sex with Jim Moriarty – and no, I knew who he was this time. The names? Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. Goodbye, I choose death._

She buried her faceinto her pillow and screamed.

* * *

Molly Hooper was screaming into her pillow.

For someone so small, she could scream quite a lot. She'd been buried in the ugly pillow case of pink flowers for almost five to ten minutes now.

Jim drummed his fingers on his desk.

When should he visit his lady love again?

He watched her curl up in bed and fall asleep in whatever she was wearing – still quite a mess from the weekend.

 _Give her time,_ he thought to himself, smiling benevolently as he watched her like an omniscient God, watching her Miltonic fall.

* * *

 _You have one new message_

 **Sherlock Holmes**

Molly, I need fingers. - SH

 **Molly Hooper**

You have ten. x Molly

 **Sherlock Holmes**

Very funny. Can you get me fingers? - SH

 **Molly Hooper**

I might have some toes, will those do?

 **Sherlock Holmes**

I suppose. Where have you been? That idiot, _Frederickson_ has been handling things. - SH

 **Molly Hooper**

I have a day shift too, Sherlock… have you been bothering Frederickson? He looked so pale last time!

 **Sherlock Holmes**

He wasn't protecting my cultures. – SH

 **Molly Hooper**

Oh dear God, Sherlock, his girlfriend just left him.

 **Sherlock Holmes**

Lucky girl. He was cheating on her. She looked very surprised when she heard about that. - SH

 **Molly Hooper**

… Sherlock.

 **Sherlock Holmes**

Molly. Fingers. - SH

 **Molly Hooper**

Yes, fine.

 **Sherlock Holmes**

You're also out of milk. - SH

 **Molly Hooper**

When were you even – nevermind. I'll pick up milk, but could you please just buy it from the grocery store instead of raiding my fridge every time John yells at you?

 **Sherlock Holmes**

Duly noted. Please take more night shifts. – SH

* * *

Molly spent Monday agonising, Tuesday jumping at the smallest sounds, Wednesday trying to avoid people like Sherlock, and Thursday fighting the impulse to call Meena and tell her everything. Friday meant Sherlock texting her for fingers, which she supplied while being completely distracted. This didn't serve him well, because he snapped at her and ordered her to ignore whatever underwhelming specimen had chosen to ask her out this time.

Molly nearly broke down that instant.

By Saturday, however, the slow hope that maybe Jim's coming was a _one-off_ was creeping into her head.

Of course, there was the fact that she was being watched – that was the only explanation for the uneasy feeling that she was constantly getting when she took to the streets alone. She knew that her apartment was watched, again – the uneasy feeling. She had proof, as well. She knew that if she'd actually spotted someone or something watching her, it was an amateur at best. The _feeling_ was a better proof than any of the other things.

There was also the fact that Toby's dish looked suspiciously filled on days that she forgot to fill it. And she was _sure_ she'd _not_ bought milk recently.

And by Sunday, after spending another day holed up inside her room speed reading _Name of the Wind,_ she began to calm down a little.

There was no _reason_ for Jim Moriarty to be after her. Well – apart from the obvious two words printed on her arm and on his. Apart from _that_ little complication – what could he want from her? Something to distract himself with? It won't work for long, and when it ended, she'd be dead.

Hopefully, thought Molly with a very strange sense of calm and morbidity – he would do her the courtesy of killing her himself. That would be nice, certainly – a perk in her very boring life, being killed by a criminal mastermind.

By Monday she was hoping against all hope that he wouldn't turn up again. Nervous though she was at the prospect of it happening, a small part of her was disappointed – it had been ten days now – if he was going to just _turn up_ to have sex whenever – Molly wasn't _sure_ what she would do.

She had never sympathised with her mother more.

* * *

He was busy through the week – so many little things to organise, so much to think about and so much to work with. Little Holmes called again, feeling indignant at the speed of things, and he told her to be patient. She was a little wildcard, if anything else – and he didn't care much for her familial spat, no.

Jim watched Molly Hooper from the corner of his eye. It was funny – for someone who could compartmentalise priorities very well, Molly Hooper managed to be something very relaxing to check on at the end of the day. It was like watching a TV sitcom of mindlessness. He liked watching her come home and read more and more – go grocery shopping occasionally, take long baths and come out looking like she had the weight of the world taken off her shoulders.

The cogs of her mind were whirring, and he could almost see them happen. Everything from murder to death to lunacy had crossed her mind. Such predictable patterns of behaviour – not for the first time, he wondered what actually managed to make her interesting.

Then again, she surprised him. Regularly. It was unprecedented.

And on that note, as he watched her relax and watch telly when she came home, he decided it was time to invade her space again.

* * *

He rang the bell – he was nothing if not polite.

"Just a mo,'" she said. He heard something crash – and shatter.

" _Fuck,"_ he heard her say.

"First Mr. Danvers, next _this –"_ she was very loud. Jim wondered if he should have brought flowers for emphasis.

That was when the door opened. Molly Hooper's face looked at him brightly, cursing something for a small minute before the panic set in.

 _Slam._

The door shut with speed, and Jim almost – _almost_ jumped back.

He knocked again politely.

"Go away!" she cried.

" _Rude,"_ Jim said.

"I'm sure you'll get over it," came her muffled call from the other side of the door.

"You never know," he mused. "I'm not one known to forget grudges."

"I thought you were all about the _consent,"_ she said.

Good point.

He shrugged. "If I leave – and I will – I won't come again. Possibly. Probably. I'm just so _changeable,_ Molly, I can't tell you."

She didn't say anything.

"But if I _do_ go away," he said slyly. "Would you be able to live with it?"

The door remained conspicuously silent.

Then – imperceptibly, the clicks of the lock opening one by one – one agonisation at a time – could be heard. She opened the door, her brown hair in a perfect pony tail, everything about her countenance on guard, and she clung to the door. Jim was leaning against the frame as he observed her pale knuckles, gripping the door as if it was some last bastion of her sanity.

"Honey," he called, grinning as wide as possible. "I'm _home."_

* * *

She was twitchy as she made tea. Having already broken a plate when attempting to get to the door, Jim took pity on the girl and handled pouring it into a cup.

"Milk, one sugar?" he asked.

She nodded, tongue tied.

He noticed a small post-it on her fridge.

 _DO NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH CRIMINAL MASTERMINDS AND/OR SOCIOPATHS_

"Charming," he said with a laugh.

She took the cup, heading to the sofa without so much as a word. She didn't say anything as he sat down.

"You know, it's impolite to not talk to guests," said Jim conversationally.

She gave him an acidic look.

He sipped his tea. She squared her shoulders, and Jim waited.

"Your… _names,"_ she said slowly.

"The ones on my arm?" he prodded.

"Those," she said. "Um – look, there's nothing very _interesting –_ about me – I just – happen to be here in the right time, right moment."

"I thought it was _destiny,"_ he said, making his eyes large and _hopeful._

"No, there's a lot of significant studies that have disproved that," she said firmly. "Not to mention the fact that Miller and Scott found that most names occur during teenage years, when it is most likely you will make the decisions that shape your life. There's a lot more _chance_ involved than destiny, mathematically – one of the theories – it –"

"Mmm, talk dirty to me darling," he said.

Molly blushed.

"I'm sure – I'm sure it's just an _error."_

"Tell me one thing, sweetheart," said Jim. "I'm sure the one name on my arm could be an error – and predictably _boring_ as you are, I'm sure we can even explain those brief moments where you manage to be just something _more._ But how would you care to explain the name on your arm."

Molly looked distantly.

"Bad judgement," she said finally.

He laughed. "I wouldn't argue with that."

"'Ta, Molly Hooper," he said, getting up. "I will be seeing you soon, I hope."

He left her sitting in the room, the quizzical expression on her face almost adorable.

" _Wait!"_ she said.

He turned.

"Look, can you please disable the camera in my apartment?'' she asked. "And please tell whoever is following me to please _quit."_

His head tilted to the side.

"And don't you dare tell me that I'm imagining it," she said. "The fact that I'm imagining it should be a testament to the proficiency of your men, you can pass my compliments."

His lips twitched. He found himself again and again on the brink of being _bored_ by her – and then she'd say just the right thing, in the right moment, and he'd be curious.

"And if I don't?" he asked, amused. "What will you do? Go to Lestrade? Sherlock Holmes? Wittle Won Jotson?"

For the first time, since knowing him as _Jim Moriarty,_ Molly looked furious. She looked perfectly, reasonably, _kittenishly_ angry.

"Is it so wrong for me to ask for privacy?" she demanded. "I just want to not feel watched as I watch _Doctor Who_!"

"Of course it's _not,"_ said Jim with a mock horror. "I'm sure you can strong arm me. Perhaps use a nine millimetre Beretta to make your point. Break a few ribs.

And then – she rose to her full height, her hair crackling, her eyes burning – and she said:

"If you don't give me my privacy back I will pour _pizza sauce_ all over your suits," she said.

Jim blinked.

Her fists tightened.

He loosened the tie around his neck, stepping forward deliberately. Molly swallowed perceptibly. " _What?"_ he asked in a dangerously low voice.

"You heard me," she said. He was impressed; her voice broke only once.

"What makes you think I _care?"_ he asked.

"Oh, don't _pull_ that," she said angrily. "You and Sherlock Holmes are oh-so-sure of yourselves, aren't you? Just take my goddamn _word_ for it, _James Moriarty."_

His head tilted again – he stepped into her personal space, crowding her. She didn't back down, her eyes boring holes into his. He could smell lemon shampoo on her.

He was erect.

"Interesting," he said more to himself than to her. His breath was on her ear as he leaned in carefully – "Request granted, dearest."

And he was gone.

* * *

She took multiple deep breaths as soon as he was gone.

… it was like going into battle.

Just like Sherlock.

And then the frustration returned all over again.

* * *

Monday: she wondered whether she should buy tarts ever again.

Tuesday: she decided she needed more post-its, and this time, she was getting _Hello Kitty_ ones.

Wednesday: she baked cookies again.

Thursday: she packed them in small boxes and gave them out to colleagues.

Friday: one last box was left.

Saturday: she would touch the box, and then put it back. For some reason, the feeling that she was being watched inside the apartment was gone. No one had bought her milk in a while, and Toby's dish was empty whenever it should be.

Sunday: he showed up. They had sex. On the floor. The neighbours heard. Mrs. Drew came up and wondered if everything was okay, what with all the screaming. Molly looked weather beaten and bright eyed, her hair damp and sweaty.

Mrs. Drew's question died in her throat.

They had sex again, on the floor again, and this time, he made her scream even louder.

* * *

He couldn't really watch her from inside the flat anymore. After her outrageous threat ( _Which worked,_ a part of him mused) he had to dismantle the cameras. Torturing Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes was fun, of course, but Westwood came above all else.

But here was the funny thing: he was _enjoying_ sex with her.

On that note, he decided to return two nights in a row.

This time, they used the bed again. Molly wasn't sure what he wanted from her, even lesser what she wanted from him – but she decided she had to set some ground rules.

"Look," she said nervously. "Can we talk about this a little?"

"Is it the 'it's not you, it's me,' talk?" he asked.

"What – no…" said Molly. "We're not – I mean, if we _were_ –"

He waited.

"Anyway," she continued. "I just – want to know – what you're doing here. That's all. Maybe Sherlock is your destined lover, Jim, maybe you've got the wrong name."

He smiled, and time and again she was struck by just how much of a wolf he looked. If she was Little Red Riding Hood, this fairytale had a _terrible_ ending.

He got out of bed, standing – completely and utterly terrifying.

"How does it matter?"

* * *

 _You have one new message_

 **Irene Adler**

No, the fourth book is _The Goblet of Fire._

 **Sebastian Moran**

What? It's so large.

 **Irene Adler**

You are not ready for the fifth one. Why are you buying it anyway?

 **Sebastian Moran**

First lemon tarts, then the fourth Harry Potter book – boss has got me on the weirdest shopping list, let me tell you.

 **Irene Adler**

I need to have a word with your boss, you know.

* * *

 **All the slow burny shit, am I RIGHT.**

 **Reviews are love.**

 **Someone requested the whole of the show with Irene and Sebastian texting and BOY WAS I TAKEN BY THE IDEA.**


	5. His Wonder Was to Find Unawakened Eve

**Guyyys. I'm sorry for being a day late, but I'm writing SO MANY OTHER THINGS AT THE MOMENT.**

 **Also if you find someone called ixnay commenting bloody murder in the comments, please ignore her, she's trying to incite violence.**

 **Let's hope I stick to my schedule in the next ten days.**

 **Leaptnotfallen is the cutest, shout out to her for all those molliarty prompts she sent me.**

 **What was I saying? Yes. SMUT ALERT.**

* * *

 _You have one new message_

 **Sebastian Moran**

Wait, so when the fourth book comes out, the bad guy is back?

 **Irene Adler**

He comes back towards the end of the fourth book, yes.

 **Sebastian Moran**

Why have you read all these?

 **Irene Adler**

I'm a woman of taste! Why are you asking me all this?

* * *

There was a Tupperware box with biscuits kept on the counter where his jacket was lying. Jim wondered whether they were there on purpose, when Molly emerged from the bedroom. She wasn't wearing anything – hastily tying the knot of her dressing gown. Jim was wearing his pants so far, and putting on his shirt when she began to say -

"Um – I baked this weekend."

"I heard," said Jim watching her interestedly as he buttoned up his shirt.

"You did?" she asked. "No, you got rid of the cameras, right?"

"I did," he said. "Moran keeps an eye on you anyway, because he's a fuss pot like that. I really ought to dock his pay," he added thoughtfully.

"Erm – well," said Molly. "I have too many biscuits. I gave half to Meena – but she's a bit tired of them – plus, it's giving me away. I bake when I'm stressed, you know? So whenever I bake – Meena knows, and I think – I think I should avoid giving her some baking, for a while, at least. Anyway – here, you can keep some."

"You know," he said conversationally. "Very soon, half your staff and your friends are going to stop buying desserts at this rate."

Molly looked at her feet. "Right," she said. "So – anyway."

"You don't need to make small talk, Molly," said Jim, almost pitying her. Almost.

"Okay, good," she sighed with relief.

"Oh, by the way – I know I can Google it later," he said, drawling. "But it saves me fractional time as I put on my jacket – what's the next book in the _Harry Potter_ series."

Molly blinked.

"What?"

" _Harry Potter._ The next book."

"Where – where are you at, right now?" asked Molly, clearing her throat. "That is, which book did you finish?"

"Fourth," said Jim, emphasising carefully.

Molly swallowed. "You – you liked it, then?"

"I did find the writing a little _childish_ at first," he said, putting on his jacket. "It grew on me."

Molly blinked.

"Um – good to know," she said finally. "The fifth one is _Order of Phoenix."_

"Oh, I _think_ I heard Sebastian muttering about it. Is it very large?"

"The largest in the series, yes," nodded Molly uncertainly.

"That should be _fun,"_ said Jim. He looked around for his tie.

"Oh – I think it is inside," Molly supplied. She immediately went inside her room, and Jim grinned.

"How could I forget?" he said, following her.

"Shut up Jim," muttered Molly under her breath.

He waited for her to undo it from the headboard. Molly bit her lip. "Jim – well, it's gotten all creased. If you give me a second, I'll iron it."

"Do you ever wonder, Molly, what you did in your life to be ironing ties for criminal masterminds?" asked Jim.

"No," said Molly, turning red. "And I'd advise you not to get me thinking about it. I might lose sanity."

He leaned forward. "I hope so," he said reverentially.

She glared at him, pulling the tie away. Jim decided to leave the room and wait for her to be done. He had no interest in how things were ironed, for one thing. For another, it was a good time to pay a little attention to Molly's flat.

The living room was a small thing, with mismatched chairs and a softboard and whiteboard. Along the coffee table, there were magazines and medical journals and _tonnes_ of notes. Molly used post its, colour coding, endless pens, and so many notes. Everything was diagrammed, everything was scribbled to bits – Jim would almost be impressed.

There was a giant bookshelf, and a closet. In the closet, Molly seemed to keep ice skates, a fuck ton of books, and photographs. All of Molly's photographs were kept in her closet – _interesting –_ apart from a picture she had with her friend Meena. The object of curiosity was the bookshelf – Molly seemed to have an appetite for anything, even if her preferred books were Dystopian fictions, or Fantasies, or imaginative ones. He spotted a few historical fictions, and, surprisingly, romance.

He heard her re-enter the room, and without turning around, he said, "You read _trash?"_

"Yes," she said, coming up beside him. "I like trash."

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes. Trash is what has always made history. Look at Shakespeare. Complete and utter trash," she said.

Jim examined the shelf.

His own apartments changed too frequently for any personal touch, of course. His old childhood home in Ireland lay barren and empty, in desperate need for renovation. At some time, Jim had probably favoured things which allowed him to personalise his room – currently, the only thing he gave away was that he was _stylish._

He stood up again, waiting for her to give him the tie. Instead of handing it to him, Molly unconsciously put it around his neck.

Poor Molly Hooper.

She tied his tie carefully, Windsor knot, standard. She must have done it for someone before, but experience indicated she didn't have many boyfriends. Father, possibly.

"Anyway," she said. "Goodnight, Jim."

Jim looked at her, deliberately feigning the instinct to kiss her on the cheek. He left, knowing that she had spotted it, and would possibly lose another weekend over stress baking.

* * *

He looked like he would kiss her. For a second, Molly's heartbeat had increased. Only when she thought about it later did she consider the reality – fact was, Jim never kissed without reason. Everything was orchestrated, everything from his suit, his tie, his eyes, his unsettling way of talking. He probably knew all this – that's what made the orchestration so effective.

No, that wasn't it, thought Molly. It wasn't just that he knew he was doing everything with an end goal in mind, every action happened with a predicted reaction. Jim didn't seem to… _care_ if he _was_ orchestrating. It might make it more fun for him. Playing a part could be fun, she supposed – especially if everyone knew, on some level, that the part came with an international criminal empire that could destroy you.

 _He must be so bored._

The idle thought was a strange one, because the man had her life on balance and she was with him for no other reason than she couldn't stop herself. She didn't know _why_ she had a death wish, but she clearly did.

And he never kept regular hours, either – Jim always came at night, when she was least expecting it. May had passed into June, and towards the end of June, the erraticness of his pattern was becoming more and more obvious to her. At times, she didn't see him for weeks – other times, she saw him every day of the week and Sundays.

Never did he kiss her without reason. Without it being a tool – a weapon, plying something out of her. Maybe he was bartering kisses in exchange for company.

She wished, for the hundredth time, to talk to Meena.

* * *

"Boss?" asked Sebastian.

"What?" asked Jim, steepling his fingers as he looked at her.

"What's this?" he asked, motioning towards Molly's tupperware box full of biscuits.

"Baked goods," said Jim.

"Who gave them?" asked Sebastian.

"Will you spank me if I tell you?" asked Jim with a wink.

Sebastian rolled his eyes.

"Molly," said Jim, wearing his suit jacket. "You can help yourself."

"Oh," said Sebastian. "That's fine, but when do you return it?"

"Return _what?"_ asked Jim, irritated.

"The box. The one she gave you the biscuits in."

"I don't _know,_ Moran," said Jim. "Empty them out and I'll give it back whenever I go."

"No, sir, the thing is," said Moran. "When you return a box which was given with food you have to make sure you put food back in."

Silence.

"What?" asked Jim, finally.

"Well, you can't return it empty," said Moran matter-of-factly.

"And why not?" sighed Jim.

"It's rude," said Moran. "Just trust me."

"Well, do we have to cook?" asked Jim, exasperated and partly alarmed.

"No, I'll handle it," said Moran, whipping his phone out. "I suggest you return to her soon, though. Don't want stuff to spoil if I go through the effort of getting it."

* * *

Adler always favoured colours like purple and blue when she had plans that she was proposing. The reds and blacks were her battle armour – she was predictable that way. Jim knew that she was planning something, and he could tell she wanted to stick her fingers into his personal, Sherlock pie. No wonder she was here with her pathetic excuse for protection. She tapped away at her phone, smiling at him when she looked up. He yawned in her face.

"I heard you've been fighting chickens," said Irene, reapplying lipstick in a small vanity mirror.

"Did you bet on the chicken?" asked Jim.

"Of course. Good taste in literature, by the way, Jim."

"Thank you. I aim to please," he said.

The car door opened, and Moran looked in. "Boss?" he said.

"Distract me, Sebby, I can't carry on much longer."

Irene rolled her eyes.

"Here's your box."

"What?" asked Jim.

"Your food. To return," said Moran.

"Right," said Jim. "Just keep it somewhere, I'll take it when I go."

"No, you should go tonight," said Moran firmly. "The icing will spoil."

Jim glared at Moran.

"He's right," said Irene, without looking up from her phone.

"What?" asked Jim sharply.

"Icing. It spoils. Whoever gave you the Tupperware ought to have it returned."

Jim looked from Moran to Irene.

"So do you all just know this custom?"

"It's not _my_ fault," said Irene. "I made the mistake of lending _him_ a box filled with some poisoned _something_ , once. I think it was fruit."

"Spaghetti," corrected Moran. "That was really early on, though. When you were gaining control of the Armenians."

"Oh, _yeah,"_ said Jim reminiscently.

"Right, of course – spaghetti," said Irene. "I wouldn't be as Evil Queen as to poison fruit, now that I think about it."

"No, I think the witch role suits you better," said Jim, rolling his eyes. "Don't quibble over evil villain roles while I'm sitting next to you, dear."

"Anyway, he gave it back to me with chocolate. Something about never returning a containing empty."

"I lived in India, boss," said Moran.

Jim really couldn't care less.

"I really couldn't care less," he said. "Just put it away – I'll give it to her."

* * *

The apartment was empty. "Toby!" called Molly. "Toby!"

The cat swished past her leg. She smiled. "Hello," she said happily.

It had been a tiring, _tiring_ day – Sherlock, as usual, keeping her late. She yawned, considering what to make for herself. When she was really tired, cooking helped – something dumb, usually. Like noodles, or an egg.

She felt like having an egg with noodles, come to think of it.

"Your building has _terrible_ security," said a familiar drawl.

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin as she gripped the counter.

"Jim!" she breathed. "Please don't scare me like that."

He jumped out of the couch that faced away from her. Molly was struck again and again by how predatory he looked – and how it scared and aroused her at the same time.

Molly was in mental _hell._ This was just _agonising._

"It's _fun,"_ he said. Molly shuddered.

"I – um, I'm sure – the thing is – the thing is –" Molly's stomach growled.

Jim's smile was so strange, Molly just ignored it. His head tilted to one side – like it did whenever he was interested, or curious, or analysing her.

Molly had never felt so relentlessly analysed.

"Go on," he said. "Are you hungry?"

"Can you give me a minute?" she asked. "I'll just cook something. For you, as well. Have you had dinner."

"Come to think of it," said Jim, putting his finger on his chin mockingly. "I have _not._ Sorry – it was a cannibalism thing, really couldn't get out of it."

Molly swallowed. "Right. I hope it didn't put you off your appetite," she joked. "Then again – it never happens to me. Sometimes, when I'm analysing victims and they've had something really good, I get very strong cravings."

Jim's head was tilting again.

"You know," said Molly nervously. "When you find yourself cutting up a stomach which had just eaten tacos or something – and you feel like eating just – I – well – nevermind."

"Do go on," he said.

"Um – I'm just going to make us something."

"You should save some appetite. Moran sent cake."

"Why?" asked Molly, confused. She put away her coat, her bag, and headed to the kitchen.

Molly looked at Jim, wondering what he was playing at.

"Um," she said. "And this is?"

"Sebastian hit an unexpected fit of gallantry. Or propriety. Wish I knew which it was - the result is cake, for you."

"What?" asked Molly, more confused than ever.

"Does it _matter_ , Molly?" asked Jim, bored.

"No," said Molly. "No, I suppose not. I guess I am taken aback."

"Don't feel too pleased. Sebastian might have done something entertaining for once. Maybe the thing has some poison in it."

Molly blanched. "That goes to the lab, then. Did he give any reason?"

"Something about never returning a container empty."

She stopped while taking out a pan. "Do people do that?"

"Of course," said Jim. "There's a dominatrix who is _completely_ into it by the looks of it. Maybe you should ask Sherlock."

Molly dropped her pan.

"Look, Jim," she said, her voice shaky. "My mental state right now? It's a mess. It's a wreck. A disaster. A veritable horror story. I don't know why you have me around, but please can we not mention Sherlock? It's just going to cause me to start going into a seizure."

He was looking at her again – like a predator seizing up her prey.

"Would you like me to be _him,_ Molly?" he asked gently.

Molly had never been more scared in her life.

"No," she said. "Please, don't. Please."

"One of us is the _soulmate_ , honey," cooed Jim. He was advancing forward and Molly was inching back.

"No," she said. "Both of you are terrible. I can't tell which it is – I can't, I can't, I can't."

She couldn't look at him.

"Excellent," he breathed.

His lips were on hers, and she couldn't make sense of anything again. She felt his erection against her thigh. His hands pulled on her hair, and she gasped for breath.

"You've been a bad girl, Molly Hooper," he said.

"No, no – I haven't," she said. "Oh," she whispered. His hands were on the small of her back.

"You can't even differentiate between us, can you, Molly?" he asked.

"I can't," she agreed, her voice breaking.

"That's _bad,"_ said Jim – Molly banged against the wall – rather painfully, too – she cried out. "I hope you have a safe word," he said.

"Didn't need one," she gasped.

"Pick one," he suggested.

She looked at him straight in his eyes, swallowed every little bit of her that was screaming disaster, and said:

"Tarts."

Jim's tongue flicked upwards.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

"You do it," she challenged.

His fingers slid across the waistband of her jeans. Abruptly – his hand left, and she took a deep breath.

He stepped back. Deliberately, he took of his suit jacket, folding it carefully over his arm. He placed it on the clean kitchen counter behind him. He undid the button of his sleeves, taking off the cufflinks and placing them next to the suit jacket. He rolled his sleeves up, and Molly felt warm simply looking at him.

He loosened his tie, and Molly swallowed.

"Undress," he ordered.

She began to take off her jumper, but he stopped her. She was pressed against the wall of her kitchen, and there was little room to manoeuvre.

His eyes flicked downwards, to her trousers.

She undid her button, pulled off her trousers, and eventually, took off her shoes and socks. She kicked them to the side and waited. She could feel her arousal over her thighs.

"Do me," he said.

Her breath caught in her throat. She hesitated.

He leaned forward. "Well?" he asked.

"I can't give you that much power over me," she said, looking at him directly in the eyes. "I won't."

Then a really funny thing happened – instead of doing what a dominant would (and yes, Molly had read on the dynamics. Besides being interested in them, she also got a few cases which involved them), Jim Moriarty stripped his pants off.

God, every single clumsy thing she did – he managed to make it look effortless.

He kissed her again, and she leaned back on the wall. His hand gripped her wrist, keeping it stuck to the wall.

"For punishment," he said, almost conversationally. "You won't be using them," he informed her.

She waited for him to say something more. But, instead of saying anything, he kissed her again.

 _Oh, good,_ she thought. _More hickeys on my neck._

Before she knew what he was planning to do, Jim slapped her thigh. Molly whimpered.

"What did you do wrong, Molly?" he asked, almost gently.

She didn't say anything. Her thigh stung as he struck her again – but it wasn't very – _painful._ It was the appearance of it that was so titillating.

"I compared him to you."

"That's right," he said.

Molly took a deep breath – she could feel the skin of her thighs tingle as his hand meet it again and again. One after the other, and her breath becoming more and more strangled. She was red on her thighs, almost unable to see sense.

"Look at all the sounds you're making, Molly Hooper," he whispered.

Her body was traitorous.

"Are you sure it's me you want?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Are you _sure?"_ he asked.

"Yes," she nearly sobbed. "You. You. Only you."

He hoisted her up, and Molly marvelled at his strength. She wrapped her legs around him as he raised her up against the wall. Her hand scrabbled to find grip, and she watched him look at her warningly.

"You don't use those, Molly Hooper," he said.

She shivered.

"I need something to hold," she said.

He gave her a look. She didn't know how to categorise it. She really ought to give up on categorisation entirely, it didn't seem to work at all. His mouth was on her ears.

"You can't _tell,"_ he sang. "You're a bad girl, Molly Hooper – you want to fuck a criminal. You'd fuck me in front of him, wouldn't you?"

"No," she promised. "No – I promise, I wouldn't." Molly leaned back, her hips forward and pushed him just a little – once the angle made more sense to her, she could find a little grip on the wall for her hands.

He thrust into her, rocking her as she desperately tried to hold some form of control. She couldn't help moaning so loudly that the neighbours would most _certainly_ here. Then again, thankfully, her neighbours had given up for some time now.

She chewed her lip.

He thrust into her again, and abandoning the wall, Molly gripped his shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice breathy.

"I guess I'll let it pass just _this_ once, Miss Hooper."

Moll groaned as he thrust into her again.

"It is _Doctor_ Hooper," she said through gritted teeth.

Jim shuddered and Molly's eye widened – he thrust into her once again, before coming. Molly was the one watching curiously, as Jim Moriarty for the first time seemed to lose control. He bit his lip, and tried to hold back but it was no use.

"That was _interesting,"_ he said, but he didn't look interested. He looked – _perplexed. "_ Perhaps next time, _Doctor_ Hooper, you save your corrections for _after."_

She blinked at him. "Really?" she asked.

His eyes swept over her. Then – his moods changed so fast, they gave her whiplash – he was kissing her again. Before Molly could ask him what was wrong, he hoisted her on the counter, bent his head between her legs.

"Jim – why are you –" she gasped.

"I'm responsible for your orgasm, dearest," he said.

"Ex – excuse me," she said, unable to think with his tongue doing whatever it was doing. "I was responsible for my own orgasm for _quite –_ quite – _Oh_ – some – some time, I'll have you know."

Jim didn't say anything to respond, and Molly couldn't find it in herself to argue after that.

* * *

Molly couldn't tell whether the cake in the Tupperware was actually poisoned, and she really didn't want to take a chance. So she picked up a small sample from her lunch, and headed to the lab. There were many things she still wanted from her life, death would be hugely inconvenient. Maybe if things started going really south (and she really had to consider what she thought was 'south' when she was involved with a criminal mastermind, for Christ's sake) she would go for poison.

"Ah, Molly," said the resident consulting detective. "Can you bring me my cultures."

Molly rubbed her eyes, putting her box down. "Sure," she said.

By the time she was back, Sherlock was sitting next to his favourite microscope. Molly picked up her cake, carefully extracting it.

"Is it a mould?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, _no,"_ she said. "Testing for poisons."

Sherlock returned to his microscope, not caring a lot.

Molly's focus was almost entirely on her own sample. A part of her was disappointed that Sherlock didn't care more, but she really couldn't be bothered to indulge that part of her at the moment.

"It would be a very clumsy murder if someone tried to _poison_ you," said Sherlock, without looking up from his microscope.

"How so?" asked Molly, adjusting hers.

"Your character type doesn't fit," he said. "You'd detect a slow working one very early. A sudden one might not work, either, you possibly know the remedies – if it is truly deadly, it would be detected eventually."

"That makes sense," said Molly, taking the slide off. "But I am a creature of – um," she paused, distracted by the slide. "Habit, you know? Which makes it easier."

"Not necessarily," said Sherlock. "John is a creature of habit, it would be easy to kill him, no doubt. But John _can_ be spontaneous. Your routine would make it impossible for any odd behaviour to slide by."

Molly nodded grudgingly. "No, I suppose not. If someone _was_ murdering me – I've kind of imagined it, sometimes – It would be easy to kill me and replace my body with another. I don't have a very distinctive – body type. Drowning my body in the Thames would be very easy, and then, of course, burn out the finger prints and stuff – get rid of identification."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm fairly certain you'd be able to get away with murder most foul."

"Thanks," said Molly with a blush.

"Why _are_ you testing for poisons?" he said, as if it had only just struck him that it was strange.

"I'm involved with a murderer," said Molly so quickly and with an impressive straight face.

"Oh. Anyone I know?" asked Sherlock.

"Nope," said Molly, popping her 'P.'

"I must admit, I would have preferred to be the one to poison you."

"You already did!" said Molly crossly. "That _horrible_ party two years back, Sherlock, and _don't_ tell me you've forgotten all about it. Greg still has nightmares!"

"Who?" asked Sherlock blankly.

Molly fumed.

"Oh, _Lestrade._ Must have slipped my mind."

"I'm _leaving,"_ said Molly, annoyed. "I'll take my chances with the cake."

Thankfully, it wasn't poisoned.

* * *

Molly's mum, on the other hand, was not impressed by the lack of poison in the cake. She looked at it irately for a few minutes, before telling Molly that she should know better, diabetes wasn't easy to live with.

"One piece won't kill you," said Molly quietly.

"I don't want it," she said.

Molly kept it away, and she looked around the house. Molly's mum hadn't kept a single picture of her father in the living room once Dad had died, and Molly didn't know what to say. She hadn't been able to keep any pictures of her Dad either, but for very different reasons, obviously. Molly's mum, on the other hand –

The full sleeved shirt seemed to grip her wrists like handcuffs. Molly wished –

 _No,_ she told herself. _No._

"How's work?" asked Mum, finally.

"Okay," said Molly. "It's fine. Interesting cases these days – might have to go for a conference to Cornwall, and there's another one in Paris. Would you want to come?"

"No," said her Mum. "Take Meena."

"I was going to, but she also has work, Mum," said Molly gently. "Would it be so bad? Going for a bit to Paris?"

"I'd really rather _not,_ Molly," said her Mum getting up abruptly and swishing away to the kitchen. "How's Meena?" she called. "Is she dating someone, or is she still idly drifting about –"

"She's dating a girl – I dunno, don't think it's serious as of now. Lizzie, that's her name. Like Granny."

Molly's mum flinched.

Her mum looked remarkably pale, and rather fatigued. Maybe it was a good thing she wasn't in the mood to go anywhere.

She returned to the sofa, with a glass of wine. "Sit straight, Molly," she said. "God, stop wearing those ghastly jumpers."

"They're cheerful!" said Molly defensively.

* * *

By the time Molly came home from her visit to her Mum's, she was exhausted. Meeting her mother was equal parts physically and emotionally exhausting. Molly always emerged feeling more tired than anything else. All she wanted to do was curl up on the couch and sleep.

The only problem? Someone was already on the couch.

* * *

For the first time, he reached before Molly did. The apartment was empty, and Toby made for very poor company. The cat was _obsessed_ with licking his own paws over and over again for some reason, so much so that Jim nearly considered chopping them off.

Jim fell on the sofa, considering whether or not it was worth waiting for Molly.

The locks of the door clicked, and Jim rolled his eyes. Thank god, or Molly's cat might have actually been murdered.

She entered, and, funnily enough, dumped all her things at the door itself.

"Oh," she said, spotting him. She yawned.

Jim would have been insulted, if it wasn't obvious that she was exhausted.

"You took your time," he said.

"Did you have to wait?" she asked. She sounded concerned, but her own sleepiness was overcoming all other sentiment, obviously.

"Yes. Ten minutes. I've invaded countries for less."

"You couldn't have invaded countries," frowned Molly. She took of her coat and dropped it unceremoniously on the coffee table. Off came the shoes, and she sat on the edge of the sofa.

"Of course I can," he said.

She yawned again, apparently having heard nothing of what he said. Unexpectedly, she lay down on the sofa. "Budge up," she said.

Jim turned to his side, and before he could stop her, Molly curled up in the crook of his body. Her face was turned away from him.

"Molly!" he hissed, disconcerted.

"Shh," she mumbled.

"I did not come here to watch you nap."

Molly didn't say anything. He suspected she'd fallen asleep.

"Oh, for crying out loud," he said more to himself than anything else. "Molly, _wake up."_

"Mm," said Molly, by way of protest.

"If you don't wake up this instant, I will cut your cat and have him served to you on a platter."

In response, Molly turned over and curled up, face to his chest.

"I _will,"_ he promised. "I'll have it _skinned._ I'm calling Moran right now."

Molly snored softly.

This was ridiculous. He had an international crime ring, he was not going to lie on a couch and _sleep._ As it is, the Bulgarians had irritated him beyond belief today, not to mention the fact that every case he got was dull as ditchwater.

All he had to do was shake her awake.

He didn't want to _wake_ her. She looked tired.

 _Hmm._

He needed to leave before this progressed further. Heaven forbid, they started actually _cuddling._

He untangled himself from Molly – she was tired enough to actually not notice. He rolled his eyes again, threw a blanket over her and left.

* * *

 **Sebastian Moran**

There's five game of thrones books and the man's not done _?_

 **Irene Adler**

Yes. The tv show will probably overtake him

 **Sebastian Moran**

Why can't boss just watch the tv show for fuck's sake

* * *

 **Love them reviews.**


	6. Angel Should With Angel War

Jim drummed his fingers on the table.

Arson.

Boring.

The man on the phone kept talking, rapidly, and with as much animation as he could manage. Someone had clearly briefed him to keep Jim interested. It wasn't working: Jim was in half a mind to have the caller on the other end beheaded and his head displayed on a spike.

It was such a healthy practice, putting a head on a spike after the deed was done. He didn't understand the new humanitarian values that had been put in place ever since they, as a race, decided that monarchies were more trouble than they were worth.

Besides, Jim _didn't_ have a lust for killing. He was interested in what people did right before they died – for small, brief minutes, people became interesting. Not when they begged for their lives, or for the lives of the ones they loved (although the latter was a wonderful stimulant and motivator) – it was in their eyes.

Jim had rarely seen it replicated any other times. People were at their most interesting close to death – that's why he liked prolonging it. Even Arson For Policy could be interesting, if played right.

He sneezed.

Without any prompting, an image of Molly curling up in her sofa next to him came to him.

He gritted his teeth, focussing harder on the phone call. It was ridiculous, how often that image had come to him – for no other reason than the fact that it had perplexed him.

Perplexed wasn't quite right – he had felt instantaneously murderous, of course. The urge was not to wrench her off, but to break her arm, perhaps.

He was irate by how much that little, _irritating,_ innocent move had managed to haunt him.

What he wouldn't give for that specific interesting look on Molly Hooper's face. He would orchestrate it for her perfectly, she would never be more heartbroken than the moment when he shot her between the eyes.

And Sherlock Holmes – it was interesting, how curious he was. Jim was almost convinced of being half in love with the way John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had managed to make themselves _more_ interesting, particularly when he was ready to have the little Won Jotson killed for interfering.

This – this was more interesting. This had potential.

He had better wrap up this conversation before it drove him up a wall.

* * *

Molly concentrated on the window.

The world outside looked bright, summery – by London standards, anyway. The sun was out, the sky looked the right kind of misty for the crispy twenty two degrees.

It was fairly cold inside the skating rink, but Molly was sure that she would work up a sweat very soon. She threw her jacket away.

"Come, Molly!" called Meena.

"On my way," she said. She floated towards Meena, who was already at the centre of the rink. It was very empty – only the kids who were actually competitive had come. Molly knew why – it was more expensive to be in the indoor rink, as compared to the outdoor ones available during the winter. It discouraged those who weren't _actually_ competitive.

Meena had a day off – she was beginning her study soon, and before it started, she was given some time off. Since Molly had a night shift, she had volunteered to go ice skating with her.

Not volunteered, as much as told "If your face doesn't show up to the rink, watch what I do to you, bitch."

They were getting too old for this, thought Molly. She was thirty one now, and Meena was thirty.

"Don't make faces at me," said Meena. "This is tradition, Molly Hooper. If you don't continue with it even after I die, I will return to haunt you."

Molly smiled. "Won't be very different from you being alive."

"Oho!" said Meena. "Someone's sass is on the mark today."

Molly grinned. She floated off on the ice, gaining speed as she gained confidence. It always took a minute, getting back to the ice. She loved the way it felt, of course – gliding, with the imminent danger of smashing headlong into the ice and hurting yourself badly.

She zoomed around the rink, Meena behind her.

"Molly, _wait!"_ she called.

"Hah!" said Molly, turning around, careful not to twist her back.

"Why are you so good at this?" asked Meena, struggling to catch up.

Molly twirled.

"I don't know," she said. "Remember fifth grade?"

"Don't remind me," said Meena. Meena's form was pretty good herself – she skated towards Molly, grasping her hands, and joining her in a second twirl. "I remember you fell on your butt, but thanks for dragging me down with you that time. I really needed my confidence to be brought down a few notches. Your mother nearly killed us."

Molly smiled.

"Did you ever find out, Molly?" asked Meena. "Who the other name was?"

Molly shook her head.

"Oh, well," said Meena. "No one who had a happy ending ended up with one of their names."

"That's not true," said Molly.

"Tell me one person, Molly," said Meena. "This thing isn't a mark of soulmates. It's a bloody curse – an excuse to give legitimacy to our worst impulses. And you can never recognise who's who."

Molly bit her lip, and she was almost sure Meena was watching her closely. She could use a distraction.

She giggled, spinning with Meena. "You twirl your cute butt at me one more time, Molly Hooper! I will gut you!"

Molly laughed. "You sound like –" she stopped herself.

"Who?" asked Meena, catching on.

"Nothing," said Molly, shaking her head.

Meena was looking at her interestedly. "Perhaps today, we will pass the Bechdel test, Molly," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You say that everyday."

"Today is the day," she said. "I'm saying nothing. I'm not even bringing the H-word in our midst. Which stands for certain members of the opposing gender."

"We could always talk about Lizzie," said Molly slyly. "She isn't a man."

"And _I_ am not exactly known for my commitment to romance. Let's _not_ talk about Lizzie and how much I actually like her, it might send me running for the hills."

Molly was pink in the face with the exercise. "I'll race you!"

She turned, picking up speed almost instantly. She had become good over the years, but Meena and she had made a pact never to pursue the sport competitively – specifically because of how much more they loved science. This pact had been honoured since the fourth grade.

She could feel the ice slice under her skates, cutting sharply – almost like breathing. The distant sounds of Meena catching up blurred –

" _Molly, that's cheating!"_

But she went faster – and faster, and faster. She moved with the creases in the ice, smoothly – the wind whistled.

Her hair fluttered behind her in the pony tail she had tied up. She felt the trickle of sweat down the side of her face, tickling her down her back, and making her shirt sticky.

The ice creased uncomfortably – it was a rough patch.

Molly slowed.

 _Tch –_

Molly fell forwards, and was careful to try and lean forward. Regardless, the ice left a nice tear in her skin on her knees and her forearm. Her skate had gotten caught in a lump.

"Great," she muttered.

"Pride comes before fall, you show off," said Meena, sliding up beside her.

Molly rolled her eyes.

Meena gave her a hand – Molly was careful while getting up.

"Something's different about you," said Meena thoughtfully. "And I don't often say that since I dislike pondering the characteristics of anyone besides myself."

"Ha ha," said Molly.

"Who knows," said Meena, waggling her eyebrows.

Molly elbowed Meena.

* * *

Jim hadn't turned up for a while – she vaguely remembered him being there when she had come home from her mother's, but she couldn't for the life of her remember what happened. One minute she was exhausted and tired, talking to him as he remained disgruntled on the sofa – the next minute, she was curled up and sleeping on the sofa.

June was disappearing into July, giving Molly the familiar feeling of having half the year having gone. She didn't wait for Jim, not ideally. He turned up when he needed to – and she didn't have much of a say in it.

There was a very small, dangerous part of her that was missing the company.

She didn't know what to think of that, so she ignored it. She was ignoring almost all of it, by now. Her conference in Cornwall was coming up, and she was a bit worried about her mother, who seemed to have become very pale and rather fatigued over the last few weeks. She wasn't sure whether it was a symptom, but Molly's mother rarely listened to her over anything she said. To Mum, everything Molly did was because she ruined her life.

Molly didn't want to know why her mother thought this with such vehemence. Whatever her relationship with her father, Molly didn't want to pry. Molly's mother and herself were best at an arm's distance from each other – they didn't mingle well together, especially with whatever haunted past her mother carried around – like some sort of ambiguous protagonist ready to be roped into an adventure.

It helped Molly when she thought of people in terms of their role in a fantasy fiction. Of course, this didn't help when she tried to categorise Jim because then she'd be forced to admit that she had the worst possible role. Everyone knew that the villain's – _whatever_ – nearly always ended up dead.

She could swear that Little Red Riding Hood had not agonised this much.

* * *

Jim was certain he was dying.

No, it wasn't the pounding forehead that gave him this hint. It was the fact that according to Moran, what he needed was rest.

Jim _hated_ rest.

He hated stagnancy, he hated staying in one place more than anything else. Moran hadn't even batted an eyelid when Jim refused to rest.

Sebby was very used toit, if Jim said so himself. He was a good boy, he only attempted to give him chicken soup once. The disdainful look on Jim's face had been enough, thank God. Sebastian had been wise enough to take it away and bring him a decent meal.

* * *

At some point, Jim was sure Sebastian rolled his eyes.

"Do you want to lose your job, Sebby?" he asked softly.

* * *

By the time boss was burning hot, Moran had just about had enough. There were many things he was equipped to deal with, this was not one of them. He decided to send a message and a car – the job was set in Paris, and that was perfect for him. He loved Paris.

He had not signed up to be Jim's baby sitter, dangerous though he was. Besides – he had been avoiding going to _her_ house for a while. Normally, this was a situation he wouldrejoice, since they had a lot of jobs lined up – butboss had been distracted, crushing pencils like he did when something irked him. The number of pencils Moran had found by the time John Watson had entered Sherlock Holmes' life was uncanny.

* * *

 _What a beautiful day to be unceremoniously kidnapped_ thought Molly sourly.

The blindfold wasn't half bad; useless, though. The warehouse was abandoned, and she groaned at the very cliché of the warehouse being the place where Jim had called her. He couldn't be more stereotypical than Sherlock's _brother,_ and Mycroft had once tried to use her to spy on Sherlock. When she heard he'd tried that with John as well, she almost instinctively clucked her tongue at the fact that John had – just like her – refused the offer.

"Miss Hooper," said the rather large man who was predictably waiting at the end of the abandoned corridor. Not _large_ as much as very _tall –_ and quite solid. She'd never met a fitter man, and she regularly met John Watson, who was paranoid about everything and hadn't lost shape since his war.

"Hi," said Molly, clutching her bag.

"How are you?"

"Can't complain," frowned Molly. "I'm sorry – where's _Jim?"_

"Unwell," said the man shortly.

"Oh," said Molly, her eyes widening. "Well – um – what's wrong?"

"I don't care," said the man.

"Um, well, I don't suppose you're an enemy?" asked Molly nervously.

"No," said the man impassively. "If I was, you would know."

Molly bobbed her head. "Reassuring," she said. Her voice _may_ be a little squeaky, but given the circumstances, it was a reasonable thing.

"How often do you deal with people like me?" asked the man. If he was curious, he didn't betray it.

"Not _very,"_ said Molly with a small laugh.

"Then you have an inkling of how this works," he said.

"I do?" asked Molly.

"I require your services, Miss Hooper. Mr. Moriarty – since he has chosen to reveal his name to you – is unwell. I, unfortunately, have to deal with business in France. I cannot normally trust people around him – typically because he doesn't deal with anyone personally anymore, and his identity is very important to him."

Molly blinked. "Has he been throwing tantrums?" she blurted.

Almost as soon as she said it, she regretted it. She clapped her hands on her mouth, and said: "I am _so_ sorry – I mean, of course, I will take care of him."

For the smallest, _tiniest_ fraction of a second, she could _swear_ the man smiled.

* * *

"Look, Jim, just come out," said Molly from outside the bathroom desperately.

Since she had been idiotic enough to suggest he took a lukewarm shower, she would suffer the consequences.

Moran was normally his driver and if Jim was _not_ having the pounding headache, he would have stopped his little scheme. As it was, he noticed it, was reasonably irritated, and didn't think twice before stepping into the car knowing full well where it was going. Having Moran fired – and, consequently, killed – was not entirely worth it, since Moran was notoriously loyal. Jim would be _very_ surprised if Moran betrayed him.

Perhaps he should push Moran into doing that. It might shake things up a bit. Perhaps after Sherlock Holmes was done away with.

"No thank you," sang Jim.

"Don't be _difficult!"_ she said.

She was clearly debating how to get him out. It was a useless endeavour.

Jim was half in the mind to gouge out Molly Hooper's eyeballs and be done with it. This was becoming ridiculous.

"Look, I'm sorry, you left me no choice!" said Molly angrily.

"Turning off the lights," said Jim coldly. " _Childish."_

Molly glared. "Well, it _worked,_ didn't it?"

She paused, her eyes tightening as she looked at him. She touched his forehead – her hand stopping for a fraction of a second mid-way. "You're burning up," she said. "Not very high, but you need rest. I have a day off."

"Why couldn't Moran have brought you to mine?" grumbled Jim. "That was a perfectly logical thing to do."

"He didn't want to give you away," said Molly consolingly. "When did you last eat?"

"Last night."

"What did you eat?"

"Lobster. We could have killed you afterward. It would have been easy," added Jim, sniffing.

"I'm making soup," she said. "And sandwiches. You need fluids, Jim."

"I am _not_ your patient," Jim said thunderously.

"Good thing," she said smoothly. "That would mean you would be dead."

He coughed. "You wish."

"Oh, you have no idea," she said fervently.

"Listen to me," he said coldly. "This –" he punctuated the sentence with his arm, displaying her name prominently. "Does not make you special."

Molly stared. "I know."

He picked up a strand of her hair, twirling it around his fingers. "You would die as easily as I get bored," he said. "You'd best keep me interested, dearest."

"I don't want to," she whispered.

Well. Dear, _dear_ Molly Hooper – so naïve, faultless, gentle.

"Is it? You don't want to change me? To save me?"

Molly was quiet. "I can't. There's no point. I can't save myself, either."

His stare was fierce, watching this small woman decide that the fate of the world was not in her hands. It was interesting, watching Molly Hooper build herself from 'useless' upward.

"But," she added fiercely. "You _will_ have your goddamn soup."

He narrowed his eyes.

* * *

His forehead and eyes were burning by the time Molly was done with the soup.

"You aren't even _trying_ to be interesting," he mumbled as she forced him into bed.

"I'm not going to," she said patiently.

"Stupid. You'll end up dead," he said.

"Okay, Jim," she said.

"I hate it when you speak to me like that," he added.

"Why?" she asked.

"You're not afraid of me," he said by way of explanation. "Which is false, of course. You're scared of _thunderstorms."_

"Oh, no," she said matter-of-factly. It was said with a strange sort of earnestness, her eyes were steady when she said it – but her hand trembled. "I'm terrified. Of you and thunder. And no, I don't want to know how you know about that."

"Good," he said.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"No," he said, falling into her pillows. "I hate your bed."

She didn't say anything to that. He hoped she was ashamed of herself – she was a woman of a decent pay cheque, she could certainly afford to have a better apartment. He suspected some sentimental attachment to it, but he had never bothered to deduce it.

* * *

She slept out on the sofa.

There could be multiple reasons for this – the most obvious one was that she didn't want to get the same fever he did.

A part of his ear was blocked, so he wasn't in a very comfortable state. He could understand why this would be something to avoid.

There was another, more interesting explanation. Molly shied from touch.

Not from sex, no. She avoided touch – she didn't like holding his hand unless necessary, hesitated when she had to touch his forehead. Which was strange, since she loved touching during sex. He had categorised the little sounds she made every time he bit her on her thighs.

Molly was scared of intimacy.

* * *

For a day, at least, Jim was dying. He was burning up, and Molly would periodically come in to take his temperature, give him food, and give him company. She even gave him books.

Jim ignored her, for the most part. She didn't try to make conversation, and it was a good idea. For some reason, he preferred it when she was in the same room as him – if she was quiet.

He liked it best when she was silent. Then he could watch her as she did bit her lip, or her eyes would widen when he spoke. When she read books, she would consistently keep twirling her hair in her fingers, sometimes gripping it hard – should the tension increase. And sometimes, she would be going through some pathology journals, making notes – this is when her tongue would keep moistening her lips.

Molly had quirks.

She hummed to herself intermittently to calm herself down. She preferred silence over talking, since she always stumbled over her words. She was so delightfully, painfully boring that Jim couldn't help watching her – like a car wreck, that you couldn't take your eyes off.

It didn't feel like an apt analogy anymore.

* * *

"Jim?" she said gently. "Jim, what should I do with your suit?"

He opened a single eye. "I doubt it's worth saving, Molly-kins," he said.

She cringed. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? Did your daddy call you that?" he asked, shutting his eyes again.

"No," she said. "Dad actually used to call me 'Bee,'" she said thoughtfully.

"I wonder why," said Jim in a bored way.

"Yeah, I did too," said Molly, not getting the hint. "I think I once got stung by a bee – while I was trying to get my hands on a squirrel."

"Let me guess," drawled Jim. "You were trying to feed it."

"Oh no," said Molly. "It was dead. I wanted to have a closer look."

"I love it when you talk dirty to me," he said.

Molly went pink.

"Um – by the way," she said, sounding disconcerted. "I'm going to go to work tomorrow, will that be okay? Your temperature is down, and I'll leave some sandwiches for you."

Jim turned away from her.

* * *

It was a paperwork day.

By no means her favourite day, but a necessary one. A part of her was thinking about Jim almost constantly, so she wished she had an autopsy to do – to drown out the world. But she had work! She _did_ work! Not _everyone_ could be a criminal mastermind with loosely held hours.

It almost made her consider going to the dark side. Jim didn't have cookies, but that was fine, she could supply cookies.

She scribbled away, unconsciously thinking about Jim _Moriarty_ lying in her bed. She smiled. Oh, she was still terrified of him. He could still murder her without a second thought. But there was a part of him – that was _fond_ of him. She shouldn't get too comfortable – anything could happen should Jim die, and she wouldn't have anything to protect herself from him.

Not that she could if she wanted to.

It was at this moment that Sherlock swooped in, coat and all. His very pompous, _Sherlock-y_ way emphasised by the way he gnashed his teeth.

He was in a _mood._

Molly had seen it so often, that she almost automatically cringed.

"Y- yes?" she asked.

" _Where,"_ said Sherlock deliberately. "Are the Thompson bodies."

"They've gone to be – well, um – processed, Sherlock," said Molly nervously.

"Stop that," he said. "You're as bad as Anderson when you do that, and we don't need one more person with their IQ in double digits."

Molly winced.

"Look – just because – just because I _stumble_ doesn't mean being _cruel_ – is going to – well, fix it," said Molly determinedly.

"We do not have _time_ for your character building backbone to show up," said Sherlock, his eyes flashing. "Take whatever unresolved issues which you have with your mother – no doubt, the ones causing your supreme social awkwardness and idiocy and deal with them _later,_ Molly Hooper. Whichever unrefined idiot you're dating now, _ignore_ him."

Molly went red.

John entered at precisely this moment.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I was just chatting with Mike. What did I miss?"

He stared at the space between Molly and Sherlock.

"Oh, Christ, she's going to cry," sneered Sherlock.

"So?" asked Molly, her voice cracking.

"Come on – Sherlock, let's go," said John.

Molly's eyes were burning, and she hated this anger. It was the kind of anger that made her want to curl up into a ball and not think. Cry consistently and never endingly. It was different from the normal, cold sort of anger she saw on her mother – and occasionally on Meena.

As they both left, she heard Sherlock give a frustrated sigh of exasperation.

And this was supposed to be either hersoulmate, or her enemy.

* * *

The door opened and shut in the living room. Jim was staring at the ceiling. He was contemplating what he would do to Moran for leaving him here.

On the other hand, since Molly had sentimental copies of her _Harry Potter_ series, he had managed to finish the sixth book, as well. Arguably, it had been the most well written one so far. He liked it better when the darker themes surfaced.

"Hey," said Molly.

Catch in her voice. Something had _happened._

"How was work?" drawled Jim.

"Usual," said Molly shortly.

It was work, then.

"Who hurt you?" asked Jim.

Molly was probably surprised, judging by the pause.

"Why do you care?" she asked.

"I don't like broken toys," said Jim.

She was probably clenching her fists.

To his surprise, Molly didn't burst into anger. She sat down on the floor, using the sofa as her backrest. She took off her shoes, her socks, and her jumper. She was wearing an ugly blouse underneath that. Her practical and unflattering pants didn't do anything for her body.

She was quiet.

The funniest thing had happened, noted Jim. She had been crying.

Her silence was disconcerting, actually, Jim considered. It was interesting to see this small woman quiet when she was sad – unresponsive, unwilling to talk. He had always thought that Molly would wear her heart on her sleeve – indiscriminate in what she shared with whom.

But she was quiet.

"Who was it, darling?" he asked boredly.

She sighed. "Sherlock."

Her voice broke a little, and he could tell she wanted to cry. He watched her carefully – but she didn't end up tearing up. In a strange show of emotional control, she was silent.

"What did he say?" Jim prodded.

"Does it matter?" she asked.

There was something curious about this sadness.

"You're sad, aren't you?" asked Jim. "I've heard 'talking about it' helps."

"Have you been watching rom coms?" asked Molly, frowning.

He grinned, sitting up. His legs were near her, and she didn't seem interested in seeing his face.

"What did he say, dearest?" asked Jim gently.

"Nothing that wasn't true," said Molly finally. She got up, slowly. "What would you like for dinner?"

He could try manipulating her – but something told him that she would respond poorly to that.


	7. Unform'd and Void: Darkness Profound

**HEY EVERYONE. Getting back to your tumblr prompts ASAP, promise!**

* * *

Meena shuffled in her coat. "It's already September," she said. "And Pudding Island is already freezing."

Molly didn't say anything.

"Molly? All okay?" asked Meena gently.

"I am… not looking forward to this," said Molly.

"It's alright, Molly. Parents are… weird."

"Yours seemed okay," said Molly miserably.

"That's because they sent me away for the most part," said Meena sharply. "That wasn't exactly a piece of cake, Molly."

"I know," said Molly. "I'm sorry."

"Happy birthday, Molly," said Meena, before knocking the door.

Her mother opened the door. She was wearing her glasses – glasses which didn't hide the bags under her eyes – whatever was bothering her mother, it was constant and never ceasing.

"Hey, Mrs. Hooper," said Meena pleasantly.

Molly's mum nodded. "Happy birthday, darling," she said – and just for a little bit, Molly could imagine she meant it. She kissed Molly on the cheek, before they stepped into the home. Molly and Meena put their coats away – Molly, purposely wearing a jumper patterned with ducks underneath it.

The corners of Molly's mum's eyes crinkled – whatever she wanted to say, she restrained it.

"You've been expanding your collection, Mrs Hooper?" asked Meena, trying to break the silence.

"Yes," said her Mum shortly. Meena went closer to the shelf, reading whatever her Mum's new titles were.

"Well, girls," said her mother, her voice catching. "Make yourselves comfortable. Would you like some ginger ale?"

"Yes, please," said Molly.

Molly's mum smiled – for the briefest of seconds.

"It's always surreal coming here," said Meena. "I always feel like I'm ten again."

"I wish you wouldn't," shuddered Molly. "Ages ten through eighteen were terrible."

"Your Grandma had better taste than your mum and dad," said Meena, admiring the furniture.

"She was also ridiculously racist and homophobic, which automatically makes you uninvited," Molly reminded her. "Not to mention the fact that she was _horrible."_

"How could I forget?" asked Meena sourly. "New ways to hate myself around her. Imperialism is the bane of my existence."

"Literally," said Molly.

Meena winked.

Molly's mum re-entered. "Here," she said, handing them glasses with ginger ale.

"Mum, can we go up to my room?" asked Molly.

"It's your house, Molly," said Mum.

"It's Grandma's," said Molly curtly. "Coming, Meena."

"Oh, _boy,"_ said Meena, partly sarcastic and partly genuine. "I actually never got to see your room!"

* * *

It was nothing amazing, of course. But it was _hers._ In everything that was this house – her Grandmother had put a stamp. _Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine._ Molly as a burden, Molly's Mum was baggage – and Molly's living was irrelevant. Everything about living with her grandmother was a fight for identity, for space, for existence.

Meena had been fighting a very similar battle, of course – which was what connected them so deeply. They looked for spaces outside these structures – outside Meena's aunt, outside her parents in India, outside Molly's grandparents.

"Green," commented Meena, looking at the walls of the room. "Pleasant," she said, in a tone that suggested anything but.

"Grandma never let me get pink," said Molly quietly.

"Poor taste," said Meena immediately. "Look at those shelves? Green, really? What a _clash._ Your grandma wouldn't last a second on _Extreme Makeover: House Edition."_

Molly giggled.

"You hated this room, didn't you?" asked Meena.

Molly didn't say anything. "Did you love yours?"

Meena smiled. "Hey, I got to decorate mine."

Molly picked up her old microscope.

"Mum kept it the same," she muttered.

"Yeah, my aunt tore my stuff down the day I left for college. Yeesh. We _are_ depressing. Fuck you, Molly."

"What did I do?" asked Molly defensively.

"I don't know, but it's your fault. You inflicted your tragic back story on me."

"Please," said Molly. "Your tragic back story is yours and yours alone." She picked up an old stuffed toy. "I'm going to go use the bathroom."

Molly went down the hall, to her mother's. She was unsure about the state of her own room's bathroom – especially considering the coating of dust on all her belongings. She'd taken all her books with her when she went to college – with the exception of few. A battered history book lay in the corner, with a pile of _Nancy Drew_ books. She hadn't wanted to leave any of her books with her mother and her grandmother – especially not things like her _Tolkien_ books. Of course, this meant that a lot of them remained in their boxes under her dorm bed.

Her mum's bathroom was completely flawless, of course. Molly looked at her face in the mirror.

She looked old.

It was funny – her own image of herself never shifted from her early twenties. The girl in the mirror, however – she was old. She looked tired.

Once she was done she opened the cabinet, just for the satisfaction. When she was a kid, she would be curious – and her father would pretend that there was Narnia or something behind the glass cabinet. So once she became twelve, it became satisfying to open it every time she entered the bathroom.

Molly's eye caught a small bottle in the corner.

"Molly?" Meena called after her.

"Yeah?" said Molly, tearing her eyes away.

"Where are you?"

"In here," Molly choked out.

Meena entered the bathroom shamelessly. Her eyes followed Molly's.

"Your mum's on anti-depressants," said Meena bluntly from somewhere-in-the-bathroom.

Molly frowned, looking far too intensely at a toothbrush.

"What?" she asked finally. "These aren't _recent_ –" Molly checked the dates on the bottle. "Oh, _fuck,"_ she swore.

"Do me a favour," said Meena. "Don't lose your head."

"It's impossible not to," said Molly.

"No, it's not. It's your mother's business, and you need to not get angry," said Meena in a no-nonsense tone.

"She _never_ tells me anything!" Molly said indignantly. "I'm allowed to be upset she didn't tell me!"

"Upset, yes. Confrontational? No," said Meena. "You can't go barrelling downstairs declaring war. She's not well."

"Well, she could have _said_ something."

"Because you have been telling everyone everything?" asked Meena. "You and I both know what we are talking about."

Molly flinched. "No," she said.

Meena looked at her intently. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but even I can tell you have your names," said Meena darkly. "I didn't bring it up."

"It's not what you think, Meena," said Molly desperately.

"Unless one of the names is me, I don't see why you should fuss," said Meena. "And even then, I don't see why you should fuss."

Molly blinked. "You – don't – do you _like_ me?" sputtered Molly.

Meena gave her a look of utter disdain. "Do not reduce the value of our friendship just because I don't want to sleep with you, Molly Hooper. Besides, I like Lizzie more."

Molly's mind was racing. "I'm sorry – um, I couldn't help _asking_ – you know, force of habit, where names are concerned." Force of habit? What habit? Which habit? When had she ever had names to have a habit?

"You and every other person on the planet," said Meena. She lifted Molly's fully clothed hand, shaking it. "This does not _mean_ anything, Molly!"

"Molly, where are you?" came her mother's voice from downstairs.

Molly snatched her arm away from Meena. "How would you know?"

"And how would _you?"_ asked Meena.

"What are you girls doing here?" asked her Mum, frowning. "Molly, I've told you a _thousand times –"_

"I was using the bathroom," Molly gritted out.

"You're _loitering,"_ said her mother angrily. "Get _out –_ for heaven's –"

"Why are you taking anti-depressants?" Molly blurted out.

For the first time in years, her mother was shocked. Molly stared at her mother – the glasses, the brown hair, the brown eyes which hadn't smiled for decades – the fashionable clothing. Meena was forgotten in her peripheral vision, a distant someone else that Molly didn't care for at the moment. She watched her mother take off her glasses – almost as if they wiped away bitterness, anger, regret.

She looked into her mother's eyes to see only emptiness.

"Why," asked her mother slowly. "Do you care?"

"Why shouldn't I?" asked Molly.

Meena gripped Molly's arm again. "Molly…" she said warningly.

Molly snatched it away for the second time. "Tell me _why,_ mother. I know you've been miserable for years – years, and years, and years. Tell me _why."_

"Can't you guess?" Mum spat bitterly. "Can't you fucking _guess?"_

"No," said Molly. "What is _wrong_ with you? What made you this way? Why the _hell_ did you hate dad so much? What did he do to you? What did _I?"_

"You _happened,_ Molly Elizabeth Hooper. You _happened._ You happened and I was _trapped,"_ Molly's mother burst out. "You were the only reason why I couldn't _leave_ him – why I couldn't find the person I should have stayed with – If I – if I had been – more –" Molly's mother took a deep breath. Tears began to run down her cheeks – but they weren't quiet, pretty tears. They were sobs – broken, stuttering, almost unable to express themselves with how much they had been kept away.

" _Brave,"_ she finished. "If I had been more brave."

Meena was quiet.

"Who was it?" demanded Molly, her eyes burned. She couldn't control the tears. "On your arm. Who was he?"

Mum took a deep breath, wiping her tears.

"Sarah. Sarah Johnson."

Molly stared – her mind emptied of any retort she had.

Molly's mother was a someone else in that minute, a someone Molly had never known – someone who was furiously and rapidly unbuttoning the cuffs of her full sleeves. The anger, the one that she had possibly kept away and never opened, it surfaced as the button broke, and the sleeve was all but ripped away – her hand, a battleground of god knows which war.

It was scarred, the arm, cut, over, and over, and over. The name _Sarah Johnson_ covered in slices of Jane Hooper's misery.

Meena's face must have expressed what Molly wanted to say, because her mother looked at Meena with a terrible sort of regret. Meena sat down belatedly on the bed, and Molly remembered dreamily how her mother had tacitly always supported Meena.

"She was my best friend," said Jane Hooper to her. "My best friend. We practiced kissing when we were young, because we wanted to know what it was like. And then – and then – we became sixteen."

She needn't have said more. Molly could fill the gaps in herself.

"It was the _sixties,_ Molly. The movement for people like me and Sarah Johnson had just about picked up, but there was no way it would have survived in the town I grew up in," said Jane Hooper, tears pouring down. She was apologising to someone – whoever it was, Molly didn't know them. "Your _grandmother –_ you know what she was like."

Meena snorted.

"Your Dad – we dated, for sometime. I said yes to shut everyone up. That was the time anyone with a name of someone from the same sex was looked at with so much suspicion – you don't – you don't – you don't _know –_ you weren't there."

And then Meena reached her hand out. Her mother, instantly retreated, stepping away from Meena.

"What did Dad do to you?" asked Molly. She didn't want to know _David Hooper –_ she wanted to remember her father. Her father who called her Bee, who told her she wasn't weird if she liked books.

Molly's mum laughed humourlessly.

"He never hurt me, if that's what you're asking," said Jane Hooper. "Not physically. There's other ways to make someone miserable, Molly. So many thousands of awful little ways, and your dad was a master at them. When I finally decided to leave, you happened. You happened after years of trying, you happened, and he made you his. And I could do nothing."

Molly sat down, holding her head in her hands.

"Molly, I –" began Jane Hooper. She stepped forward –

"No," said Molly quietly.

She wiped her tears, breathed in, out. She looked around the room desperately, feeling the suffocation of her Grandmother's presence. She pushed her hair again, feeling her heart ache.

"Molly?" asked Meena gently.

"I'm leaving," said Molly.

"Molly, you don't under –" her mother tried again.

"Understand?" asked Molly. "I don't understand. I don't. It's true. I – I have to go."

She stepped on her mother's side, eager to escape. To get really, _really_ piss drunk.

* * *

"Boss?" said Sebby as he entered.

"Please, not now," said Jim, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated dealing with mob bosses. They loved thinking that they're the best of the best, the fucking Don Corleones of the goddamn world. If he is threatened one more time by a fucking mob boss, he might have the entire network slaughtered by morning.

"Oh. Alright," shrugged Sebastian.

"Is it important?" asked Jim, resigning himself to something trivial. That was the only reason why Sebastian would leave the room. He was very _naggy,_ as hitmen went.

"No, it's not much. Your pathologist is very drunk, though."

Jim lifted his hand off of his forehead, and looked at him with interest.

"Not a very proper establishment, either. I'll send in the car to pick her up, so that would be settled."

"No," said Jim, grinning. "I need a _pick me up."_

"You could have some in the office," said Sebastian.

"You're cute too, Sebby," said Jim cheerfully.

"Fine," said Sebastian.

"You've been complaining about her lesser," said Jim. "Should I be worried?"

"Hardly," snorted Sebastian. "She's the only one who can force you to stay in bed. I'd rather maintain pleasant relations with her."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Maybe I'll have you kill her," he said, putting his coat on.

"You'd want to do it yourself," said Sebastian.

Sebastian did have his rare moments of insight.

* * *

When she was in university, Molly had lamented her small frame and blamed her incapacity with alcohol on it. Today? She had never been gladder that it took so little to get her properly, fully, _piss_ drunk.

Thankfully, Meena hadn't found her. Meena knew Molly would not frequent a place like this, of course. The number of times her phone had buzzed had been a bit worrying, but after her fourth drink – she'd forgotten all about her phone.

"Is this seat taken?" asked a pleasant voice, with an Irish lilt.

"Ab-abso- _abso-fucking-lutely,"_ declared Molly loudly. The room swayed dangerously, and she wondered who was dangling it about like that. "I am a perfectly _happy – single_ woman. _Happy._ Perfectly. And I have _nothing_ I need. I have a job. And a cat. And I have a criminal mastermind, who's my _something._ And I have a consulting detective. What do you fucking _have?"_

"A pathologist," said the Irish voice amusedly.

Molly blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the person in front of her.

"Jim!" she said happily. "Jim," she continued, her heart falling. "Jim," she said angrily.

Jim was looking at her. Molly didn't have the energy to tell what he was seeing.

"Yes, darling?" he asked.

"I am angry with you," she said, frowning. "I can't fathom _why."_

"I gathered," he said.

"Why are you here?" asked Molly, confused.

"I am your knight in shining armour," he said with a smile.

Molly snorted. "I'm sure," she said. "More like a – a – what are those people? The Not Good ones?"

"Villains?" asked Jim.

"Those are the ones," said Molly, slapping the table. "Those. Those specific ones, specifically those. The des-descendants! Of _Lucifer."_

He leaned in. "What does that make you?"

Molly frowned. "I don't know," she sighed. "I don't know, I really don't. I feel like Faustus."

Jim was frowning. She had never seen him look like that. She wished she could commit his face to memory, as if he might disappear one day without a single way for Molly to remember him.

"Come on, dearest," he said finally. His voice sounded odd. "Let's take you home."

Molly stared.

She might be mistaken, or it might be the alcohol – but it sounded for a second like he wasn't on the brink of murdering her. That's what made her obey.

* * *

She was curled up on his lap again. Jim was distinctly uncomfortable, but he could say nothing to her – she was perfectly out of her senses. Everything from her swaying walk to her incessant babble was irritating him, particularly because there was nothing for him to _do_ about it. On some level – his plan was working. Molly Hooper _was_ falling for him, in a synchronised, operatic way – the kind that would break her heart when it ended. When he smiled, _just right,_ and said goodbye.

" _No,"_ she murmured in her sleep.

He wasn't sure why this was irritating him so much.

There was something wrong with her tonight, and Jim hated the fact that he wasn't able to guess. He knew she went to her mother's, that she had taken Meena along with her. He had dismissed it as irrelevant, since Meena grew up with Molly. It seemed fair that she would take her occasionally.

She looked strange – uncaring, unconcerned. It was disconcerting to see the lack of regard for her life on her. It had been very arousing initially, but as of now, it stopped being interesting and became an object of – an object of –

 _Concern._

Jim turned his neck from side to side, feeling the satisfaction of a small crack.

It was… irksome – to see Molly's eyes reflect nothing.

* * *

"Jim?"

"Honey?" asked Jim, unconcerned, his arm around her waist as he lugged her to her apartment.

"I am ready to be taken advantage of," sighed Molly.

"No, thank you," he said politely, opening her door.

Molly frowned.

"Why not?" she asked, crossly.

"Sex while drunk is very unstimulating," he said woodenly. He'd really rather not speak to her at the moment – her offer was tempting him, and his reason was a solid one.

"Oh," she said. "Okay."

She was quiet again, and that ridiculous sheen came over her eyes again.

"I shouldn't be with you," she said to the darkness.

"No, probably not," he said. "Lucky you aren't."

Molly Hooper was a silent creature. A creature of quiet troubles, unvoiced ones, silently spoken anger.

This was quiet pain.

Against his better judgement, he took off his jacket, sitting down on the sofa, near her feet.

"What do you need, Molly Hooper?" he asked in his most business-like tone.

Molly blinked at him.

"What?" she asked.

"You are clearly upset about something. What do you need? Whatever the fuck you need in times like these – apart from talking about it inanely. Summarise in a three sentences, if you wish."

"Why are you asking?" asked Molly.

"I don't know," said Jim, pinching the bridge of his nose again, frowning. "Maybe it's bothering me that I can't deduce it."

She looked away, her arm extended, hanging limply from the couch. "Three sentences?" she asked herself softly.

"My mother married the wrong name. I was the reason she stayed. Happy birthday to me."

Jim looked up to examine her.

Birthdays mattered to some people, he knew. His mother had tried to celebrate his for a good few years. It was a complete and utter manipulation, they had both always known, but that was possibly the birthday present.

"What do you need?" he repeated.

She looked at him intently.

"Um," she said. "Would you – erm. Would you mind a kiss?"

"Are you _eleven,_ Molly? I hope not, with all the things I've done to you," said Jim.

"No, it's just –" she sighed in frustration, getting up on the sofa. She crossed her legs, looking at him cautiously. "Look – just – don't – _kill_ me _."_

He didn't ask her what she was about to do, because before he could stop her, she had kissed him.

It was – strange.

 _Soft._

Molly's lips moved gently, instinctively – almost cautiously. Once, twice. The lack of manipulation almost made him suspicious, tear her off him and leave almost immediately.

If it wasn't for how… _good_ it felt.

He didn't respond for a few seconds, before his hands – unsure of what to do in the event of not having clothes to discard of, reached for her jaw bone instead. Her own hands twined so _carefully_ in his hair, without a single pull which was too strong. Every bit of his brain was screaming at him to stop, telling him this was _terrible –_ he had never done _this_ before.

But the silence of Molly's speech was part of her fucking _kiss._ He could feel that get under his skin, uncomfortably. So that when she stopped, when she looked at him gratefully and said, "I'm sorry. I know that must have been very disgusting for you," he wanted to wrench her and demand to know _what_ she had done.

And, most terrifyingly, ask her to do it again.

* * *

 **Love them reviews!**


	8. Their Distance Argues

**Guyyyyyyyyyyyys I'm sorry. I have no excuses. I have had this chapter written for WEEKS. Seriously, ask Ronnie, she will tell you. Or ask Tingy. I've been sitting on it because I've been so stuck for the next chapter.**

 **Anyway I love you guys, please keep reading and don't abandon meeeeeee.**

 **Lola4ever pointed out that I had missed a line break in the middle, which made the previous chapter confusing. It has been rectified.**

 **Bay: Hahahahahahaha I don't know? Ask Molly ;)**

* * *

They stared.

"What's he doing?" Irene murmured.

"I don't know," Sebastian whispered back. "He's been like this for a couple of days."

Irene raised an eyebrow.

"A week," corrected Sebastian.

Jim Moriarty paced in his office, in a restlessness that Sebastian had never seen in him. Even Eurus Holmes had not put such… _animation_ in his step.

"Something's off," said Irene.

Sebastian tacitly agreed. It wasn't a walk of excitement, or one of interest and intrigue.

The boss was _frustrated._ God knows what over. Jim Moriarty hardly ever got frustrated.

The boss' hand floated upwards, touching his lips almost unconsciously.

* * *

Studiously, Jim decided to think about nothing but work for a week. Nothing _but._ His concentration was really commendable, even Eurus called to find out why the week had been such a disaster for the Scotland Yard. When Jim put his mind to things, drug cartels smuggled truckloads of heroin under the eyes of SWAT teams, political murders were covered up with ease, and a country's political system could be crushed.

"Something on your mind, Jim?" Irene asked on the phone.

Jim ground his teeth together.

"Nothing you ought to be concerned by, honey bun," said Jim.

"I could swear the last week was not exactly on the _script,"_ she said gently. The implied threat was annoying. What was with all the _implication_ in the criminal world? Why couldn't one just threaten and be done with? Molly never needed to have _implications_ given to _her –_ she got scared plain and simple without them.

And that was the root of the problem.

Without any encouragement, Molly's lips came to his mind. He snarled, and Irene almost _definitely_ caught it.

* * *

" _Molly!"_

Molly considered. She didn't know whether she wanted to deal with this at the moment.

"I know you're there, I can see your shadow under the crack of the door."

Molly sighed. She wondered whether or not she should count to ten and see if Meena left.

"Don't you dare count to ten and see if I leave," continued Meena irately. "We are not eleven anymore, Molly Hooper."

Molly opened the door.

"Hi," she said as she looked at Meena. Meena looked remarkably like she was out of college in that moment – her old beanie, her old scarf. She was even wet with the light drizzle that had come to London. The sharp red colour twanged in Molly's head, reminding her of all those times when they were teenagers, and Meena would show up outside Molly's house – not allowed to enter, and they would drive off without speaking – as if they both knew they needed a break.

"Hey," said Meena finally. "Lizzie said I ought to talk to you. I told her talking about feelings was nowhere near on the top of my to-do list, to which she replied by shoving me out in the rain with a hat and a scarf."

Molly stepped aside to let Meena in.

"Lizzie sounds like the top," Molly sniffed.

"Thank _fuck,"_ said Meena. "Even _I_ get tired of lording over everyone all the time." She flopped down on the couch, and again – the rain, the smell of water, the red which Meena was sporting reminded her too sharply of memories – evenings, and evenings, and evenings, of colourless greys and blacks and blues and in her Grandma's house.

Molly curled up on the couch alongside her.

Meena shifted comfortably, wrapping her hands around Molly. Molly instinctively buried her head in Meena's shoulder.

Meena loved physical comfort. To her, cuddles were a source of therapy. Molly had been on the opposite end of the spectrum. She had never been the one who needed physical reminders of – of – care.

She couldn't quite remember what had happened a week back – well, not after she got completely and utterly sloshed. She had a vague recollection of a black SUV picking her up and taking her home. She assumed that was Jim's doing. She had a vaguer recollection of Jim, but she was sure she had imagined it. Jim wouldn't come for her rescue – that was pushing the imagination too far. The rest of the night was a blank in her mind, apart from a few images here and there – the bartender flirting with her, Meena chasing after her, switching her phone off – whatever.

She didn't know why – or what happened – but she woke up feeling – _better._ Comforted, strangely.

"You okay?" asked Meena finally.

"I guess," said Molly. "I don't know how to feel."

"You know," said Meena conversationally. "Your Mum was always nice to me, even though your grandmum was not."

"Yes, very redeeming," said Molly bitingly.

"I'm just saying," said Meena. "Far be it from me to tell you to forgive her for dealing with internalised homophobia, because the gays have _got_ to be held accountable."

"Who's holding the gays accountable?" asked Molly defensively.

"The straights," said Meena flatly.

Molly laughed – but only a little. "Well, rest assured, I'm only holding a parent accountable."

"Good call," said Meena. "Parents are assholes. How dare they be people? It's disgusting."

Molly turned away from her. "Meena, can you not make sense for once in your life?"

"My entire existence is based on being right all the time," said Meena. "But sure. We will deal with your valid as hell emotions one at a time."

Meena had called her over and over without Molly responding after the incident at Jane Hooper's home. She hadn't really felt like dealing with it, for one. Mike had wondered briefly if everything was okay, but Molly maintained a very good professional work ethic. Not even Sherlock noticed after that.

"So…" began Meena with a hint of a smile. "You got your names?"

Molly nodded.

"Who?" asked Meena, the familiar gossipy gleam in her eye.

Molly was blushing.

"It can't be that bad," said Meena reasonably. "I mean, it wouldn't be a serial killer or something."

Molly went from red to something resembling more of a delicate puce.

"It's a serial killer, isn't it?" Meena deadpanned.

Molly said nothing.

"I'm just kidding. Who is it, Molly?"

Molly bit her lip. "A serial killer?" she said in a small voice.

"Good joke," said Meena dismissively.

Again, no response from Molly.

"Oh my god," said Meena, her eyes wide. "It's _actually_ a serial killer."

Molly nodded briefly.

"Molly this is the point where you contradict me and say that no, it's something more innocent like that _asshole_ Grant Brown who is on your fucking _arm."_

"That man was a _complete_ misogynist!" said Molly angrily.

"And that is somehow worse than a feminist serial killer?" asked Meena sarcastically. "Seriously tell me – who are they? There have to be two names. If one is a serial killer, the only way the other one could be worse is if it was Sherlock Holmes."

Molly blinked.

"Oh my _god,"_ said Meena. "It's fucking _Sherlock Holmes."_

Molly stared at her feet.

"I honestly don't know whether or not that's worse," said Meena darkly. "Okay. Show me."

Molly slowly pulled her sleeves up.

Meena looked, for a good minute and a half.

Then she threw her head back and laughed. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

"Oh holy _fuck,_ Molly," said Meena, gasping for breath. "You take after your mother, don't you?"

* * *

Jim hadn't come by for two weeks now. This wasn't very disconcerting, since Molly found it easy to concentrate when he wasn't there. She _was_ concerned, however, now that a while had passed. She wondered if there was any way to get in touch with him.

After a while, she ignored it. If he was dead in a ditch somewhere, it would be on the news. If everything had already been hushed up, the signs would show on Sherlock. Contrary to popular belief, she could read him very well. And finally, if he _was_ in trouble, there was nothing she could do about it.

At least now – now, she had Meena. She hadn't told Meena that she was meeting Jim on a regular basis, but it was easier knowing that Meena knew who was on her arm and how bad it could get. It was easier having her, as it always had been.

Here was the part that was troubling her the most.

She _liked_ Jim Moriarty.

Like – _liked,_ liked.

Molly buried her head in her arms every time she thought about it. Her heart would not be able to take it. It fluttered in panic when she considered the situation, because fuck, who, in this entire world _ever_ had a crush on fucking _Jim Moriarty._

Sure, some idiots must have had a crush on him back in school when he wasn't completely insane, but the balance of probability said that Molly was the first one in a long time.

There was only one solution.

 _Biscuits._

* * *

Jim had decided.

Jim hadn't wanted to come back to her, but he decided on doing it for the sake of his own plan. Molly was a name on his arm, and she didn't deserve anything less than the worst he could offer her. He wanted her to care for him, and that would be hard if he stopped showing up to her home as planned.

Besides, a part of him – that masochistic part that he always indulged – was curious. What did Molly Hooper have that was consistently eluding him? And more importantly, how could he defeat it?

Molly was _stress baking_ again.

Jim grinned when he saw her again. The kitchen was a mess, there was flour everywhere, and one brown haired woman who looked like she had never seen the light of day.

"Hi," sang Jim.

"What's up?" said Molly breathlessly. "Be seated, I'll be with you in a minute."

No hint of surprise. Interesting.

"Should I order you out of the kitchen?" asked Jim delicately.

"I'd really rather you didn't," she said, whipping something in a bowl that he couldn't see. "Although if you did have to aim a gun at me to bring me out of the kitchen, I'd be disappointed."

He raised his eyebrow.

Of course, he didn't need to threaten her.

"You ought to come out," said Jim easily. "You wouldn't want me to borrow you _Harry Potter_ books permanently, would you? Not when I work in an environment so close to _fires_ and sharp objects."

Molly emerged.

Her hair were a sweaty mess, she looked dangerously close to murdering someone with the whisk she was holding, and her eyes looked tired.

"You _wouldn't,"_ she said darkly.

"What's that little saying?" asked Jim, swinging his legs jauntily as he stepped closer to her. "'Sink to their level'?"

Steam might as well be blowing from Molly's nose.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward. He lifted her chin up with one finger, and looked at her eyes. Without any gentleness, he rubbed off the flour that was on her cheek.

Unconsciously, his eyes flicked to her lips.

There was a strange prickling in his stomach.

He dropped her wrist immediately.

Molly looked at him confusedly. "Something wrong?" she asked.

He turned to look at her, and he could feel her fear. It rolled off her like it almost always did.

"Interesting thing," he said eventually. " _Stress baking."_

Molly turned pink. "Maybe I'm normal baking," she said.

"No," said Jim without thinking about it twice.

She chewed her lip.

"I do _wonder,"_ he said easily, relaxing against the counter, "why you would be stress baking. For all intents and purposes, you are perfectly _normal._ What is the thing that normal people feel good about? That thing where work is fine, bothersome detectives aren't bothering you, and the world is sunshine and daisies?"

"I hate daisies," said Molly.

"I'm sure tulips are a decent substitute."

"Gladulas," said Molly quickly.

He quirked his eyebrow at her.

"Dear little Molly Hooper," said Jim. "You are a funny little thing, aren't you?"

"Are you going to be cruel?" asked Molly.

"No," he said. "It's a compliment that I haven't killed you, darling. I'd like you to continue."

"Thanks," said Molly, frowning. "I guess. I dunno."

He touched her hair, stroking it gently. Molly shuddered under his touch, her lips opened, sighing so quietly that a stupider man wouldn't know what to think.

He hated every moment when she sighed – her pupils had dilated, her lips were parted, she looked terrified – but not of him.

"I – well," she said. "I think I've lost my mind."

"Poor observation skills," said Jim yawning, examining his nails. "Would have guessed that when I met you."

She rolled her eyes. "Not all of us are geniuses."

"I don't have to be a genius to know you're insane, darling," said Jim.

"Bit heavy handed, coming from you," Molly muttered, going back to whipping her batter.

"You're with me, right now, whipping cake batter," said Jim smoothly. "Of your own volition. I think I've been replaced as the poster child for insanity."

"Rude," said Molly, throwing in more flour.

"Then again," he mused, "how do I know you're not with me for my international criminal empire? Oh Molly, you break my heart."

"Because your international criminal empire is what you do, not who you are," said Molly, without looking up from her cup of chocolate chips that had to be folded into the batter.

Jim's smile was almost completely genuine.

* * *

 _You have one new message_

 **Unknown Number**

I'm curious. Do u know how hard the practical application of cracking open a skull is?

 **Molly Hooper**

Who is this? xMolly

 **Unknown Number**

Molly how dare u use xes

 **Molly Hooper**

You're using a 'u'!

 **Unknown Number**

I am the light of your life. I'm allowed.

 **Molly Hooper**

… Jim?

 **Unknown Number**

You know when I text someone and they use hugs and kisses as sign offs, I normally terminate contact with them.

 **Molly Hooper**

By murder or by blocking them?

 **Unknown Number**

Depends.

 **Molly Hooper**

Well, since I'm not blocked yet, I can only assume your large friend is on his way. What's his name? Moran.

 **Unknown Number**

Do you prefer knives or guns? Anything you want, darling.

 **Molly Hooper**

Could you… Kill me really quickly and painlessly, but then fry my body in hot oil or something. I've never seen something that large being fried.

 **Unknown Number**

Sexy.

 **Molly Hooper**

… are you texting for entertainment?

 **Unknown Number**

You tell me. I _was_ wondering whether you actually _did_ know the practical strength involved in cracking a skull open. Moran is in a sticky situation.

 **Molly Hooper**

Well, I use a bone saw. So I can imagine it must be considerable.

And there was no response to that. Molly was so shocked that he had texted, she pinched herself.

* * *

It was part curiosity.

Molly on text was different from Molly in real time. Bolder.

Part of it was testing boundaries. She'd become comfortable around him. It only made sense to wrap her in further.

And the last part was hisfavourite: entertainment.

* * *

Molly curled up on her bed.

She took deep breaths, one by one. Her forehead scrunched up periodically, and that's when her breath became impossibly laboured.

 _One, two. One, two._

She arched her back and let out a small moan –

She held her head in her arms, took a deep breath, and jumped off the bed.

Too much _clutter,_ she thought, as she spotted her desk, littered with papers. _I'd better change the sheets,_ she considered as she looked at the bed. There was nothing wrong with them, per say, except the fact that she felt _ick_ and needed them changed before her haphazard pacing of the room subsided into more _cramps._

Molly's mind wasn't resting. Call Meena, write thesis, think about Mum. Obsess, obsess, obsess. Mum, mum, mum – dad. Dad, smiling. Dad, angry. Dad, telling mum to be quiet. Cookies. Chocolate. _Ice cream._ Wine. Come on, Molly. It would be easy if she could just _do_ something – meanwhile, you know.

She scrabbled in her cupboard.

" _Fuck."_

She was out of tampons.

There was no way she was leaving the room. Not unless she wanted blood on the floor.

Her immediate response was to call Meena.

Meena was in _Newcastle._

Molly flopped on her bed.

" _Oh,"_ she squealed. She rubbed her stomach and curled up tightly again.

This was a _horrible_ weekend.

First, you wake up in a pool of your own blood and a migraine the size of Africa. Next, she was out of chocolate, muffins, medicine to solve the nightmare that was this bullshit. Lastly, out of _tampons._

Sherlock lived too far for her to call him. Besides, he raided her stuff, sometimes left things for her – she'd never actively asked for any grocery shopping from him. Of course – he had been nice enough to get her tampons that one time.

Besides, John and Sherlock lived too far away. Then again, maybe they were in the area?

She miserably inched her hand forward. She couldn't reach the phone, and she wanted to turn away and just wait for the room to be flooded with blood.

Convincing herself somehow that reaching the phone was in her best interest, she got up, rubbed her face and dialled John.

"Hello?"

" _Hey Molly. What's up?"_

"Um. Are you in the area?"

" _No, actually. We're on a case somewhere in the middle of Manchester. It's a pain."_

"Oh – oh my god. Okay, good."

" _Why, what's up?"_

"No, nothing much," said Molly. "I just needed some stuff and I was feeling too unwell to leave the home."

" _Oh. Try Lestrade?"_

"No, he's taking the weekend with his wife," said Molly.

" _Hm. Well, what about your work people?"_

"Is it pathetic that I have no friends?"

John chuckled.

" _No. Anyway, I can't judge. I have only this manchild for constant company."_

"Cheers, John," said Molly with a small laugh. "Don't let him have too much coffee."

" _Get well soon, Molly."_

Molly sighed as she heard the dial tone.

There was _one_ more person she could ask.

* * *

Bobby swallowed.

The man leaned in – he'd never caught a name, not once.

The room was hot – the fans ( _who used fans, anyway_?) squeaked periodically. There was the steady _thump-thump-thump_ of a machine, somewhere – distantly (and he didn't quite want to think about what that machine was or what it did). The large man was – well, large. His chest expanded impossibly, and it was ridiculous that Bobby had thought this would go well in any shape or form.

His eyes floated over the shadows. He'd really rather not even glimpse.

Whoever M was – and Bobby patently didn't want to know. That's why he studiously ignored the shadow – he didn't want a glimpse of anything that could be used as an excuse to kill him.

The only other point of contact was – well, _him._ And M was terrible, certainly but _he_ wasn't much better. He looked at him impassively.

"Look – I – I will get it back."

Bobby wasn't _used_ to being scared. It was a strange sensation, being afraid – not after so many years of steel nerves and all that. He'd killed his father without thinking twice, been afraid of nothing for _years –_ and here was this man –

Just looking at him.

"I – Mr. Moran, I will – it's not – it's not _lost –_ someone took it – and they'll – well, they'll pay."

Moran didn't even lean back, never tried saying anything of importance. He watched, and he waited, and he _expected._

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

 _Drip._

 _I got a pocketful of pocketful of sunshine –_

There was a phone ringing.

Moran looked at the shadow. Instead of leaving the room, a pale hand emerged, picking up the phone. There was implicit understanding here, and even Bobby knew what had to happen.

" _Hi,"_ he sang, and Bobby shut his eyes.

The gun didn't even surprise him.

* * *

"Um, Jim?" asked Molly. "I'm so – so sorry for calling you, I didn't have anyone else to call –"

"What is it, Molly?" Jim cut in. His voice was surprisingly terse.

"Um – are you in the area? Or, could you send the person you have watching me – the thing is – um, I need tampons. I am in so much pain – I'd owe you."

Molly could _tell_ he was laughing.

There was a sharp bang in the background.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Your phone call happened to be an execution, honey," said Jim, his voice returning to customary lightness – the one that was always there when he caused chaos. "Do I have to come _right now?_ I'm in the middle of murder and everything."

"Oh," frowned Molly, heart beating faster. "Will that be on my slab? Also you don't – um – you don't need to come yourself, of course."

"Maybe," said Jim. "To both."

Molly blanched. "Um, well. Okay – okay then."

"So, tampons?"

"Yes," she said quickly, nodding. "And chocolate, if you can tell the person who'll bring it."

"No worries, Molly-kins."

"Don't call me that," said Molly.

* * *

Molly chewed her lip.

She studiously ignored her sweaty forehead to wallow in misery.

The coiling porridge in her stomach was not helping her at all. She wished she'd had a decent lunch – but the canteen had been the usual versions of "oh god no," in different shapes and form.

Her brain pounded haplessly.

"Four more days," she said to herself quietly.

There was a rap on the door.

"Coming," she said. She might as well not have, her voice was tiny.

Toby snoozed next to her. She glared at him thoroughly.

The rap continued insistently.

She toppled off the bed in a haphazard flump. Urging herself forward, she finally came upon the door. The mountainous task of getting out of bed and from a puddle of her own blood was proving to be a problem without medicine.

The door swung open as soon as she undid the lock.

Jim Moriarty leaned against the door, smiling as he had the first time he had come to the apartment as _Jim Moriarty._ "Your doorman let me in."

Molly didn't say anything, pursing her lips to let him in.

Jim had just killed a man.

It had been easy to ignore it while she was in pain, because she didn't want to make herself more miserable than she already was. But he'd just killed a man. Molly had seen the police report over those bombings – that old woman had died because he'd heard his voice.

Molly wasn't Sherlock – but even she could guess what had happened when he picked up the phone and said that her call was an execution.

"Um – why did you come yourself?"

"My lady love in pain, and I do nothing?" he asked her, kissing her forehead gently. Molly flinched.

"Oh," she said.

She sat down on the sofa, eventually. "You can – um – leave the stuff, I guess. Thank you so much."

"Why don't I stay the night?" he said sweetly.

Molly hesitated. "I'm in no mood for sex, Jim."

"You're in pain," he said wonderfully. "You should have company."

His patient, easy smile was the thing that informed Molly of what he was doing.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Stay. But I want a hot water bottle."

"On your way."

On any other day, Molly would be pleasantly bemused by this behaviour. Today – after Jim had killed someone while on the phone with her, being _nice_ was a specific form of –

"Manipulating _me,"_ she muttered to herself.

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

"You killed a man – you came to me, heated water for a hot water bottle and kissed me on my forehead. Jim, at least your manipulation was subtler," she said hotly.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he said.

"I know what you are, Jim," she said. "I know you killed a man and – presenting someone else to me today is not going to make me conflicted and confused and in the mood for stress baking. I'm a bit past that now. Maybe you like flustering me because Sebastian really likes my fairy cakes, I don't know."

Jim was looking at her again with that funny kind of expression he'd had the other day – it wasn't quite curiosity anymore, but she didn't know what to call it.

"Continue," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"You have more to say," he prodded.

Molly looked at him directly. The light of the apartment hit him directly, his eyes glittering ominously. "This does not mean I've forgotten you killed a man," she said finally.

"You're telling a serial killer that," he said.

"You aren't a serial killer," she said darkly. "That would be boring."

His head tilted sideways.

"You're – I dunno. You're entertaining yourself. Must be lonely, playing games by yourself."

It was a funny thing – she said it with utmost sincerity.

"Didn't you play games by yourself, little Molly?" he asked her. His eyes were shut – meditative. "How does it make a difference which criminals die and which empires I facilitate? That's what ants do, you know – war amongst each other for different ant hills. Have organised hierarchies. Produce children. Destroy the economy."

She saw him standing in the glaring light of her kitchen bulb, diligently heating water for a hot water bottle talking about how little ants mattered in the scheme of things.

They didn't – but that wasn't the _point._

"Jim – don't you – don't you get tired?" she asked earnestly. "I don't want to debate with you over the pointlessness of humanity, because I agree. But isn't it exhausting to wreck havoc among the ants? Especially when – well, when they _do_ have long term consequences on people's lives – and histories – and laws – and what not."

"That's the _fun,"_ he said.

His perfectly coiffed hair glinted in the light.

"But," Molly struggled. "I mean – if you have got to fight battles to keep yourself living – It – it has to be _lonely_ fighting the whole world."

Jim didn't say anything, and Molly – sitting so far away on her sofa, almost felt like she'd touched a nerve. The silence was deafening – the water boiled over. Jim absently took the water off boil, putting it in the hot water bottle.

"I'll keep that in mind, Molly," he said, striding towards her. He handed her the hot water bottle, a chocolate and a lemon tart. As he settled down next to her, that familiar smile returned, "Sudoku is now going to be my mental stimulant."

But somehow, strangely, Molly felt like the smile didn't _quite_ reach his eyes.

On any other man – the look he was giving her, she would have interpreted as something close to wanting to lean in for a kiss.

But this was _Jim._

He had never _kissed_ her.

* * *

 **Reviews are love.**


	9. Or Think Thee Unbefitting Holiest Place

Molly tapped her nose thoughtfully.

"Oh, don't tell me," said Meena. "You're trying to find a word."

"What's a word for analysing that isn't analysing?" asked Molly, without having heard her. "I've used it once already in this paragraph, the flow is breaking here."

"Try 'Sherlock'," said Meena.

"Ha, ha," said Molly drily.

Meena shrugged. "How _is_ the prodigal detective?"

"He's the usual. He's been more cruel since John happened to him, but John balances him out. So that's nice," said Molly, frowning as she typed.

"And it's not bothering you?" asked Meena.

"It would have, once upon a time," said Molly. "Not anymore."

"You seem more… confident? No, that's the wrong word. Exasperated? Done? You seem more done with him now!"

Molly looked up finally. "Thank you!" she said earnestly.

"Well, are you _done_?" asked Meena.

"Kind of," said Molly. "I don't know – all these games they play. Bit tired of the whole deal. What's wrong with sitting and having some ice cream?"

"Games ' _they'_ play?" prodded Meena.

Molly bit her lip. "John. And Sherlock."

Meena squinted at her suspiciously.

* * *

Molly wasn't opening the door. Jim sighed a long suffering sigh.

It had happened once before – when he'd turned up at something like one. Molly had gone off to sleep.

He tried her cell.

 _"_ _Hi! This is Molly, at the dead centre of town. Leave a message."_

Jim smiled.

Almost without thinking, he picked the lock. He should invest in getting her better locks, but it would be a silly thing to do, considering he had a detail on her at all times anyway. Of course, the detail didn't know that he was working for Jim, but that didn't matter. The obvious conclusion would be that he was married. He deliberately liked playing with that by wearing a ring occasionally.

The apartment was silent. Toby promptly took it upon himself to rub all his cat hair on his new Westwood _._

He had never actually seen Molly _sleeping._ He had seen a very sleepy Molly, one who was unconcerned by his presence and what it meant. He had seen a tired Molly, busy doing whatever she did on her working day of being _Molly Hooper._ It was the benefit of coming very late – Molly was normally exhausted by the time he came.

Her energy seemed to increase in his presence.

He stroked Toby with a sense of satisfaction.

She was sleeping right now – comfortably and unconsciously vulnerable. He could do whatever he wanted with her in this moment, he could hurt her however he wanted. The real pain, of course, would be when he left. When he said goodbye to her after telling her about all the boring, ordinary ways in which he was tired of her. Of how she thought she could play his game.

She looked so small.

Breakable.

Like a _toy._

When he was a child – his mother had bought him a very delicate China set for children. Of course, he had broken it eventually – it was impossible for him to be entertained by something that did not play back. And of course, she had bought it to see what he would do with it. He had no disappointed her – she was quite a wonderful woman to play with, his mother. She had such _fascinating_ little games. It was a good thing he won in the end.

Molly would lose.

Molly slept flat on her stomach, her arms splayed out uncomfortably. Her hair were on every part of the pillow – and it almost seemed like she was curling up under the blanket.

What had she _meant_ when she had kissed him?

There were three possibilities: first, that she was a better player than he gave her credit for. Second, that she actually wanted to be comforted. Third, that she didn't care about the game anymore. It was possible that the last two coincided.

It seemed so impossible, the kiss. He was sure he misremembered how soft her lips had been, or how intoxicating the smell of her lab cleanser was.

He touched the palm of her hand. The skin was unbelievably soft, impossibly soft.

He recoiled.

It was almost reflexive. Unthought. Stupidly impulsive.

This was ridiculous.

Her eyes fluttered open.

She was a light sleeper.

"Hi," she murmured, stretching. "What are you – what are you – D-d-doing here?" she yawned.

She smiled at him. Then, she tilted her head and looked at him.

"Yes?" he asked her smoothly.

"Nothing," she said.

He held her hand carefully, leaning in, smiling with a manic ease.

"Tell me," he ordered.

She looked up at him worriedly. "You look – you look – lonely."

What was she _doing?_ Who was she concerned _for?_ Clearly not herself, or she wouldn't have said that, lie or not. Whatever game Molly Hooper was playing, it was clear that she thought she had the upper hand – and that would not stand.

He kissed her then. He mimicked her – the gentleness she had shown him that day, the care with which she had not hurt him. His lips moved with the ghost of Molly Hooper's little game, and then – and then –

It was gone. Whatever the game was, it became lost as Molly kissed back. She didn't kiss with force, or with anger. She just –

 _Kissed._

She frowned when he stopped, chewing her lip like she did when she was thinking. But Jim could not help but _want_ her to kiss him again.

She was breathing deeply. Her breath ghosted over his lips.

She leaned in again, as if testing waters. Jim didn't stop her, oddly enough. Her lips were deliberately hesitant, careful with how they kissed him once – just once. She was thoughtful as she kissed him again, in that same, small cautious peck.

Jim shut his eyes.

Everything from his shirt to his tie felt too tight around his neck. He felt it sticking to his body irritatingly.

Her arms went around his neck, pulling him down next to her and that was when the realisation really _hit._

He shoved her away. It was as if some of her had burnt him – he could not get her out of his head, out of his skin. He had to _fuck_ her – immediately, consistently, relentlessly.

She fell back, her stupid, ugly _Dumbo_ pyjamas – bought years back, she'd always liked _Dumbo_ and they were her size (of course they were, the woman had the physique of a fifteen year old), she'd been idiotic enough to buy them –

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I was just – I don't know what I was thinking –"

"You know your safe word?" he snapped.

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"Then let's get started," he said.

It wasn't quite what he would have liked, however.

* * *

It wasn't gone – the suffocation he had been feeling. His tie was off, but the sheets were sticking to him.

Molly sighed happily.

She was bruised – badly, but she had been sated. This undeniable, irritating, pain in his chest started. He wanted to apologise – he remembered thrusting into her with a furious, _angry_ sort of insistence. She had enjoyed it, from what he remembered, but he had never _intentionally_ been this rough with her.

"Can you stay?" she asked softly.

"What?"

"Well, you don't ever stay till the morning. Might be something about being sentimental, I don't know. Can you stay?"

And again, that burning sensation. What had she _done?_

"… Fine," he said.

He wanted to _apologise._ To this small, unassuming woman. For being _rough._

He had invaded countries for less, as he had told Molly once.

This had to end.

But he would stay – till morning. It was this _guilt._

* * *

She was still sleeping – Jim had not slept. He wasn't much of a sleeper, anyway. When he had been a lot smaller, it was a game they used to play – mother and him. How long until sleep came – who would have to go hungry tomorrow?

Good times.

Molly sleeping was a rather dangerous sight, he noted. He remained sceptical of the existence of any face that could launch a thousand ships, but sleeping Molly came close. She looked the most vulnerable then.

He jumped out of bed to make breakfast. It felt rather _domestic,_ but necessary. He was hungry – and unlike Sherlock Holmes, he didn't deny himself his baser urges.

Besides, that prickling feeling was beginning to get irritating. He had half a mind to end it all by cutting his heart out.

* * *

The smell of frying eggs must have woken her. She stumbled out of the bedroom, dropping a spoon stand as she did so.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I should put it somewhere else, I keep knocking it over."

She was wearing his shirt. His chest felt uncomfortably tight. His breath was caught, for some reason.

"Your home," said Jim shortly.

"G'morning," she said, yawning. Her arms stretched over her head – _his_ shirt riding up, skimming her thighs.

"Eggs?" he asked.

"Thanks," she said, sitting down on the table. "I have never had any of your cooking."

"I assure you, I am very adept," he said.

"I'm not surprised," said Molly easily.

He smiled.

"I have to get to work," groaned Molly as she grabbed a plate with an omelette. "Sherlock is going to have my hide if I don't give him the tests for Miss Rosa today."

Jim's fist clenched.

He had been ignoring Sherlock, he thought lovingly. He had prioritised Molly for too long – it was time to return to _that_ game.

Molly's arm reached for the tomato sauce and he spotted a bruise on it.

"You were a bit rough," said Molly cheerfully, seeing him stare.

He continued to stare at it.

"Jim?" she asked tentatively.

"Nothing," he said – more to himself than to her.

Molly shrugged.

Sherlock's face flashed in front of him.

She smiled at him again, in that very _Molly_ way. Light fell on her face, and he could nearly throw up with how perfectly incandescent she looked.

"I'll just take a shower," Molly said easily. "Then you'll get your shirt back. Unless you want to wear my pink blouse."

"Don't test me," said Jim, going back to his toast. "I look radiant in pink."

* * *

The boss had been keeping busy.

Something had gone and irritated him, or annoyed him, or puzzled him. Moran couldn't tell – reading the boss was impossible, even if you did try. But certainly, something had motivated him. He was busy obsessing over _Sherlock._

Of course, his previous obsession had been his longest one yet, and Seb wasn't quite sure how gone it was. Sherlock Holmes was a good obsession to have, but Molly Hooper felt like a potentially dangerous one.

"Sebby, are the tapes ready?" asked the boss in his most honeyed tone.

"Yes sir," said Sebastian.

Whatever the boss had planned, it couldn't be very good.

* * *

The way the world was going – the only thing keeping Molly sane was her research. Jim hadn't turned up in a while, which made life a little boring.

There was this part of her – this part that she was attempting to patently ignore – that was hurt.

She hadn't been _alone,_ though! He had kissed her back – and before her – he had been the one to instigate the normal _kiss._ She hadn't operated in isolation.

He had _recoiled._

Molly flinched at the thought as she opened her apartment door.

That's it, she decided. She wasn't going to do it ever again – she was going to be cautious about how much friendliness she showed him.

 _Why would Jim Moriarty_ **want** _to kiss you?_

* * *

Misery loves company.

Molly just _loved_ overthinking, didn't she? That's why all she had thought about was whether or not Jim wanted to kiss her. Then she felt ridiculously insecure, which made her angry. Then she wanted to call Meena and spill her heart out.

Speaking of which –

She looked at her vibrating phone, hoping it was Meena. Unfortunately, someone else was calling her.

"Oh, _no,"_ muttered Molly.

Her _mum._

She swallowed. "Okay," she said to herself. "Okay."

She picked up the phone.

" _Molly_?"

"Hi, Mum," said Molly. "Um – what's up?"

" _Darl – are you… okay?"_

"Peachy keen," said Molly through gritted teeth.

" _Molly – I – I wanted to,"_ her Mum paused. " _Molly, can you come to the hospital?"_

"What?" asked Molly, immediately alert.

" _Can you come to the hospital?"_ repeated her mother stupidly. _"I – fainted. The neighbours found me, and an ambulance was called – the insurance forms, have to be handled – and the neighbours, they left. I couldn't – well, I need someone to help me out and you're the only person I have."_

"I'm on my way," said Molly, jumping to her feet. "Text me the hospital name and address. I'll take a cab."

" _Alright,"_ said her Mum. " _Molly, I –"_

"What?" asked Molly impatiently, searching for her shoes.

There was a silence. " _Nothing."_

Molly put her shoes on, paying little attention to her surroundings. "Alright. I will see you in a bit."

* * *

Jim leaned into the monitor, smiling at the surveillance of Sherlock as he is summoned to the Buckingham Palace.

 _Well done, Adler._

He could feel the blood rush to his brain, the uncomplicated complication that was displayed on the monitor. Dear old Sherlock. Always such a brilliant, _brilliant_ idiot.

* * *

She had not smiled this time when he came. He shrugged it off, not wanting to pay more attention to her than due. What really caught his eye, however, was that second – that second when he kissed her.

She pulled away.

It wasn't a soft kiss, not one of those _Molly Specials –_ as he liked to call them. It was the kiss of give and take –

And she pulled away.

* * *

Molly rubbed her eyes.

Her mum was unwell. Stress, depression – combined with anxiety. It didn't help that she lost a lot of blood during her self-harming session.

"Something's bothering her, Doctor Hooper," said the Doctor-in-charge. "I would recommend counselling, but she's been through that."

Molly had guessed that. No one would give mum anti-depressants on a _whim._ Then again, it seemed to be a problem of the ages. Molly had obtained her Mum's psychiatrist's number, and no – it was not encouraging.

"She's been in and out over and over again, Doctor Hooper. It's had mixed results – I classify her case as something of a typical one in this day and age. She has something of a modern depression – usually caused by whatever the hell we keep hidden on our arms. There's been studies by Harvard over the increasing number of such cases, it's rather fascinating."

While it _was_ fascinating, Molly made a mental note to recommend changing her Mum's doctor.

She was sleeping by the time Molly was done filling out all the forms and speaking to the doctors. Apparently, her mother needed to be checked in on periodically, since she was prone to weakness and stress. There was also that little irritating thing about her being prone to _hurting_ herself. Depression wasn't a good look on her, was the consensus – of course, Molly bitterly considered how she had seen her mother in nothing _but_ depression.

"Molly," murmured her mother in bed.

Molly looked up tiredly.

Her fingers reached automatically for her mother's shoulder – recoiling only at the last minute.

* * *

The next time Jim saw her, she looked tired.

She _always_ looked some form of tired, he reminded himself savagely.

She smiled. It felt unnatural, however she smiled.

Molly didn't show affection in that way women normally do – there were no kisses on his cheek, not gently touches on his arm. There was nothing in her that assumed any _relationship_ of sorts – which really begged the question:

 _Why_ did she smile?

"Hey," she said. "How've you been?"

His jaw was taut as he looked at her.

"On the table, Doctor Hooper," he told her.

Molly's eyes widened, and she abandoned her book. Normally, she would smile before he ordered her to do anything – anticipation in her eyes. He saw the anticipation, of course – but she didn't smile. She didn't bother with splaying her fingers on his chest.

She must be _really_ tired.

"And Molly? No noise this time. Unless it is your safe word."

Her tongue touched her lips as she looked at him.

* * *

He'd fucked her – twice, on the table.

She whimpered and moaned in an effort to keep quiet. Not once did he have to cover her mouth, although he was tempted.

Her fingers reached for his hand at one point – but stopped short, just in time.

* * *

Her Mum was mostly quiet now. Meena didn't really demand too many updates on the matter – she knew how Molly operated. Although, she _did_ offer to babysit her mum once in a while. And she _needed_ babysitting. Molly was terrified her mother was going to go ahead and start slicing herself open again, which was why she attempted to spend every waking minute with her mother. She had to hire a caretaker so that she could go to work.

It was expensive, but she couldn't quite take an off from work at the moment. It was the only thing keeping her sane. She didn't know whether Sherlock had sensed what was off about her, or whether John had told him to be nicer. He wasn't being as _difficult_ as he normally was.

Or maybe it was something unrelated to her. God knows, honestly.

Meanwhile, her mother went listlessly day by day. It was better than the angry, bitter mess she used to be – but not by that much. Molly preferred her mother scolding, complaining, and getting angry at her. Which was just _funny._

Spending this much time with her mother didn't help her mental state, either. She was stuck in a house which barely boasted any of her pictures – just, _wonderful._ If she barely existed her dad was _nowhere._

For some reason, her grandmother had put a picture of Mum and Dad's wedding day on one of the walls. Molly looked at it – Dad's hand barely touched her Mum.

"He was always doing that," her mum said from behind her quietly.

Molly blinked.

"There was this party – and I didn't want to go. Made me go, held my hand. Kissed me."

Molly shuddered.

"Did you hate me, Mum?" asked Molly finally.

Mum looked at her blankly. "On some days," she said. "On other days, I confess – you made it rather hard."

She turned away from Molly, carefully walking towards the living room. Molly's mum sat down on the sofa, and Molly watched her. "Don't," murmured Mum.

"Okay," said Molly quietly. She sat down on the sofa.

There was something unsaid between them.

"How did you turn out so good, Molly?" asked Mum finally.

"What?" asked Molly.

"You aren't an angry – horrible person," said Mum. "You didn't end up being mean, or bullying, or unkind. You don't hurt people."

Molly frowned. "Not being a horrible person isn't something that's commendable, you know," she said. "You give yourself far too much credit, Mum. It wasn't a heartbreaking tragedy every single day. It was pinpricks. Pinpricks – one can get used to."

"I never did," said Mum.

"That's on you," said Molly. "What do you want me to say? I forgive you? I understand that you went through a lot? I understand _you_? I don't, mother."

"Then why are you here?" asked her Mum.

"It's easier than letting you die from constantly hurting yourself," said Molly darkly.

There was a small, pregnant pause. "Your father must be responsible for this in you," said her Mum. "He was nicer to you," she said quietly. "I remember you loved him so much – you made cookies together during Christmas."

"Do you remember the time he missed my ice-skating recital?" asked Molly abruptly. "Because both of you were fighting?"

Molly's mum blinked.

Molly turned away, not wanting to speak.

"No, I remember," said her Mum again. "I suppose credit should go where it is due. Meena made you this."

* * *

The cold wind of September touched her cheeks. The sky was overcast: grey, swirling with some sort of unreality. Molly looked up, her eyelashes touching the dark grey. She looked upwards, noticing the patchy white light which looked like a slice of heaven – between black clouds.

There was chatter amongst the birds, the trees and the skies.

The consensus was obvious, groaned Molly inwardly.

 _Thunder._

There was this part of her, hoping – desperately, that she would simply panic it out and die in the roads here. She was tired – so tired. She wanted to break into pieces – shatter, and never be put together again. It would be preferred. She would become the rain, the clouds, the birds – the fucking _thunder_ that terrified her.

There was no saving from this. She didn't have anyone to save her, for fuck's sake. And anyway, everyone hated a damsel in distress.

It was wrong to want someone to help you.

When she was little, she had always hugged her mother. Her mother always flinched – or patted her, quickly, and let her down immediately. Her father she didn't hug, he was too large, too impossible – too loud. And he didn't want her any more than she wanted him.

Damsels _had_ princes to save them.

Not Molly, no. She didn't have princes, she didn't have kings, she didn't have parents, she didn't even have names.

* * *

Jim glanced at the sky.

There were many things to do today: there was a drug cartel owner he had to speak to, a human trafficking organisation that needed to be shut down. Adler had a report to give him on the darling detective.

 _Sherlock Holmes._

Jim smiled slowly.

"Moran, do me a favour and call the detail following Molly. Tell them to be a little alert. There's a storm _a'coming."_

Of course, by the time the rain did come, Jim emerged looking thrilled. There were many interesting reports, Sebastian could agree – there was a plane, a lot of dead people – idiotically smart detectives. Everything the boss loved.

And it was pouring.

Thunder crashed on London's buildings, shaking them to the foundations.

"Sebby, has Molly's security detail reported back?" asked Jim idly.

"Apparently, Miss Hooper was in considerable distress. She reached her home a few hours back and has not emerged since."

Jim paused.

"She wasn't home before?" he asked in a soft, gentle voice. "She was on the streets when the storm started?"

"Yes sir," said Sebastian.

"Dear me," said Jim simply. "And why was I not told?"

Sebastian put his phone down, looking at theboss intently. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. There was an error that had been made.

* * *

Jim wasn't particularly scared. There had to be a level of fear that Molly had. He was certain that if she had made it home safely, she didn't have a panic attack. She should be _fine._

 _Perhaps_ –

 _No,_ he told himself savagely.

* * *

The apartment was dark. The black stretched into the furniture, curling around Molly's things like smoke.

She wasn't there.

Thunder cracked, the lightning splitting the sky in half and Molly's apartment into sharp light.

He was not going to call for her, like an idiot. He noticed the empty bedroom.

He knocked on the cupboard.

There wasn't a sound.

"I really hope you aren't dead inside," said Jim conversationally. "That would require so much effort on my part. I'd have to get all the paperwork done and everything."

"Go away, Jim," said Molly – her voice was a half-sob.

"Open the door," he ordered.

There was a silence.

 _1_

She didn't get up – she crawled on the hard-wood floors softly.

 _2_

The lock turned, gently, gently, gently.

 _3_

Her face peered out from behind the door. She was curled up on the floor.

He shoved his way into the closet space, jumping over her feet.

She looked at him from the floor – and then, the funniest thing happened. He crouched down next to her, sitting on the floor.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her whole body was shaking. She had been crying.

Jim didn't say much. He wasn't quite certain on _what_ to say. He reached for her, having heard that physical contact apparently helped in cases such as this.

She backed away from him.

Curious.

He wanted to ask her what had gone so terribly, terribly wrong.

"Jim – I can't – I don't want to talk about it," she said.

"Funny," he said finally. "That would explain why you are sobbing your heart out in a cupboard."

She chewed her lip. "I would be sobbing in my living room if it weren't for the storm," she attempted.

Thunder cracked again.

Molly cowered – her body shook, her arms and legs weak with not having eaten or slept.

"What do you need?" he asked her again.

She looked up from her knees.

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing, nothing, nothing, _nothing._ I want you gone – I want everyone gone, I want myself gone."

Jim tilted his head to the side.

Molly didn't say things. He gripped her wrist, dragging her to him.

"Jim, _no –_ please," she struggled. He ignored her – thunder broke the world again, and Molly screamed.

She clung to him then. Her fingers crushed his suit ( _Westwood)_ and tears were everywhere on his shirt.

That was when he kissed her.

He did not know what prompted it, or why this was appropriate for the minute it happened in.

She became quieter under his touch. Her heartbeat calmed down. He arms folded under his.

"You didn't – you didn't need to –" she said. She swallowed. "Jim, what are you doing?"

"Not quite sure," he hummed.

"I'm not – in a place to be taken advantage of," she said.

"I know," he said. His gaze shifted to the ceiling, where thunder boomed. Molly hid her face into his chest.

"Very used to dealing with this by yourself, aren't you?" he asked conversationally.

She nodded into his jacket.

"Very used to dealing with a lot of things yourself, I would assume," he said.

She nodded again, slowly. "It's not like I don't _have_ people," she said softly, but her eyes didn't reach him completely.

"More's the pity, Molly Hooper," he said.

* * *

His fingers tapped against her arms to some song. She was unsure about what Jim was doing here or why he had come. She thought he got off on her emotional devastation.

But he had kissed her.

Molly was reeling, and if it wasn't for the thunder, she'd be demanding explanations.

His heartbeat was calming. She could feel it under the suit, a comfortable repetition that reminded her this genius was _real._

It was easy to forget that. It was easy to believe he wasn't real – he was just an expression of the frustration with the world. God alone knows what it was about him that she had gone and decided to fall in love with, but here she was. With mixed feelings about a Consulting Detective who couldn't give her the time of the day and completely in love with a Criminal Mastermind that enjoyed playing mind games with her.

His finger was under her chin, lifting her face upwards. He kissed her again, carefully, softly, gently. Molly's heart stuttered to nearly a halt – she couldn't help opening her lips.

And his hands reached for her – there were no tears, no rips, nothing rough. All the buttons were done away with one by one.

"Are you sure?" she asked him softly.

He did not respond, choosing to take off her shirt.


	10. Deserted, Than Oblige Thee with a Fact

**HI ALL. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR PATIENCE, I love u very very very much.**

* * *

The room smelled of her.

Everything about it was Molly – the jumper strewn on the vanity chair, the desk piled high with fantasy writing, the quilt that she used sentimentally. Everything about it _all_ was Molly.

He smelled like her.

Molly was an everywhere for him right now. He couldn't escape her, from her small, satisfied sighs to her limbs splayed about all over the bed. She slept gracelessly, and funnily enough – _she_ hadn't asked him to stay the night.

And he _had._

Jim mulled over this. It had been a long time since he had a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, an uncomprehending complication.

Heaven only knew how much James Moriarty loved complications, but this was a decidedly uncharted one. His hand, for one, tingled. Molly's fingers had brushed across it in the middle of the night. Before, he had felt nothing when this happened. Now, his arm was – well, it was _tingling._

A very decidedly uncharted complication.

Molly sighed again in her sleep.

Last night had been everything he hated about sex. Softness. Gentleness. Warmth. Molly didn't scream this time, she moaned.

She had kissed him tentatively, unsure about how much _he_ wanted this. He had kissed her back. And back. And back again. His fingers had charted her, down the blades of her shoulder to her spine to the curve of her bottom. It had been unexplored, doing this _gentle_ thing – he had never done it before. None of his lovers had been Molly Hooper, of course – but that was the funny thing: he had expected that the mission would demand gentleness from their first date.

Molly's face appeared again before him, her small body curled up in the closet. Someone had hurt her.

His fist clenched tightly.

Molly turned – haplessly, as she always did. She always stuck to her side of the bed – whenever Jim _stayed_ for more than an hour, of course. She stuck to herself. He had never noticed how little Molly touched him. For someone who wore her heart on her sleeve, she was surprisingly good at not being clingy.

Only in moments of unconscious sleepiness – or drunkenness – did Molly reach out for physical comfort.

And as she turned, she was across his chest. Her hair fanned her back, her arm across him for good measure, her breath regular and even.

How did this woman manage to make him feel so… uncomfortable?

* * *

He was gone by morning. She wasn't very surprised.

She had no idea what had prompted last night. She didn't know why, or how, or what had happened to cause it. All she knew was that she was happy. A difficult emotion, in today's day and age.

She loved him.

And that was that. The empty cavity in her bed where Jim had been last night, every time he had touched her – that was that. It didn't matter anymore – she would worry if he didn't come again, but she wouldn't be surprised if he didn't.

After all, she had gone ahead and fallen in love. He certainly had not. Though that would not be the thing that stopped him, recognised Molly. What would stop him from coming would be that there was a chance he might not win this game that Molly had been refusing to play.

Who would he win against?

* * *

The mornings had whispers, for Molly. There were scents – it began to dawn on her, that London wasn't entirely Jim's. Or even Sherlock's, for that matter. Or Mycroft's. Goodness knows how many prodigies littered the streets of the city, forming the countless Gods that fought for dominance.

London stretched in front of her. Tall buildings, whispered words pressed on the pavement of the sidewalks – the chip shops, kebab stands, and chicken tikka places that she went to. Every Indian curry she had begged to be a little less spicy, all the libraries and homes that she had visited. Well – there was a London that was hers, and there was a part of her that knew that this London could not belong to Jim. It did not belong to anyone but her, and that was that.

It wasn't a London that was torn up with his lack of visits, it wasn't a London cut up over the loss of minds that could fight it out – intellectually, idiotically – whichever was the one Jim was wishing for.

It was a London that told _her_ things.

And she could hear it. She could feel the way the articles for Sherlock seemed just a _little_ hungrier, the _twinge_ of desperation in the newspapers every time she could feel Mycroft's assistant drop by the morgue. It had happened once, but it was enough for her to understand. London's language was strange, and caught in the middle of manipulation and winter sweaters, but it was very much decipherable.

* * *

She wasn't going to hear from him, she knew.

She knew this instinctually. She worried, but she knew. He wasn't going to come near her with a ten foot pole – not until he had figured out how to get the upper hand. It didn't matter, though.

She had so much work to do – she had a mother, a best friend, a Sherlock, and everything that came attached with that. Meena has as usual been a saviour in the midst of all this. Complaining about little, and taking over some of her shifts with her mother.

She didn't have a second to breathe. Meena had been cooking for _her._

"Don't mention it," Meena snarled when Molly mentioned it. "Take it as a thank you for all those nights in university when they served us yesterday's chicken."

Molly gratefully invited her inside her home. "You look exhausted," Meena said bluntly.

"Thanks for the tip," said Molly, yawning.

"You should sleep. Give up on everything, take a vacation."

"To _where?"_ asked Molly, curling up on the sofa.

"Have you been regularly just sleeping on the sofa?" asked Meena incredulously. "Dear God, Hooper."

"Don't Hooper me," mumbled Molly. "Ooh. You made fried rice."

"Yeah, I figured you were sick of casseroles."

"They last longer, though," Molly sighed.

"I have a confession: Lizzie makes the casseroles. I don't know how to cook," said Meena, flopping by her side.

"That's a confession?" asked Molly sarcastically. "Maybe next you should be coming out to me as a bisexual, for all the usefulness of your confession."

"Ha, ha, ha," drilled Meena. "Anyway, Lizzie has been out of London, if you remember things that aren't _your_ problems. So I made fried rice."

"Thanks, Meena," said Molly quietly. "I'll get the plates."

"You know," said Meena, as Molly got up and headed for the cupboards, "You have still not told me which guy it is you've been seeing."

Molly paused.

"What makes you think I'm seeing someone?" she asked nonchalantly.

Meena didn't even look at her. "Talk about poorly hidden secrets. Are you sure you don't want to come out to me as straight, while we're doing this?"

Molly blinked.

"I've not been seeing anyone."

"And Lizzie isn't the love of my life," Meena rattled off.

"Lizzie's the love of your life?" asked Molly blankly. "Oh my god! Lizzie _is_ the love of your life!"

"Yeah, well, don't lose your shit over it. It's not like _she_ knows she's the love of my life."

"You – God, Meena. You are distracted."

"So are you," said Meena. "Who've you been seeing?"

"No one important," said Molly. She rummaged through the cupboard finally, taking out two plates and a serving spoon. She quickly reached the sofa, settled down. Meena smiled at her briefly and sarcastically as she opened the container with the fried rice, carefully serving Meena a plate. "Guy from work."

"It's the mass murderer on your arm, isn't it?" deadpanned Meena. Molly promptly dropped her second plate. Luckily, it was a plastic one. Luckily, there wasn't any fried rice on it. Yet.

"Meena!" exclaimed Molly.

"Well?"

"… Yes," muttered Molly.

"There we go. How hard was that?"

"How many of your friends have confessed to seeing a mass murderer on the side?" asked Molly acidly, picking up the plate. She savagely put fried rice on it, as if that was going to solve anything.

"How long has it been going on?" asked Meena.

"Late April?"

Meena whistled. "That has been a long time. How come you aren't dead yet?"

"I don't know," said Molly to herself. "I thought it would be over one month in."

"And where were you expecting yourself to be, in that one month?" asked Meena conversationally.

"On my slab," confessed Molly.

"Kinky," winked Meena.

"Meena!" Molly reprimanded.

"You can't tell me it's not a turn on for him," said Meena, rolling her eyes.

"No! I mean – yes. I mean, I don't know. It could be – almost certainly. But I don't know, because we always meet at my place. He's never really – met me otherwise."

"Hasn't he?" asked Meena.

"No, he hasn't," said Molly, shifting her food from one end of the plate to another, making no move to eat it. "He always shows up here. We have sex. He leaves before morning."

"Friends with benefits?"

"For him," muttered Molly. "I mean – it's not like I can ever ask _him_ for sex, can I? I hardly have his _number._ "

"Hmm," frowned Meena. "What _does_ turn him on?"

"Bondage," said Molly, without thinking twice. "Dominant _or_ submissive. He's a _terrible_ sub, though. It was really hard for me to establish control."

"Really?"

"I actually don't mind taking the backseat for him frequently. But then – he takes the backseat sometimes. Very little. Sasses me throughout. What else? Funny things turn him on."

"Like?"

Molly shut her eyes. "Things that surprise him. Not unexpected, exactly. _Surprising_ things – if I correct him, or sometimes when I say something innocuous."

Molly opened her eyes. Meena looked thoughtful. "Do you _try_ to surprise him?"

"No," said Molly, shaking her head. "It always happens inadvertently. Never when I try – the less I try, the more I surprise him, in fact."

"You don't stumble and stammer around him anymore, do you?" asked Meena.

Molly thought about it for a second. "No," she realise. "I don't."

Meena leaned back. "Eat your rice," she said.

"Just ask whatever you're thinking," said Molly.

Meena looked at her meditatively. "He's been doing things with you, hasn't he? Not sexually. Interesting things."

Molly blushed.

"Wow," said Meena. "You can tell me how your mass murderer likes his sex, but you can't tell me what he's been doing for you, as a person. Tell me, which was it? Did he drink with you? Read one of your books? Make your breakfast?"

"He did those things," she said slowly. Molly bit her lip. "But – he – he kissed me."

Meena stared. "I hope he did, because kissing is a really good way to get sex ready."

"No, you don't get it," said Molly. "He _kissed_ me. Like – softly. Not as a preamble to sex."

" _He_ did?"

Molly nodded.

"Hmm," said Meena. "What are his names?"

Molly went from red to purple.

"Molly Hooper," said Meena deliberately. "What are Jim Moriarty's names?"

"It's not important," mumbled Molly.

"Yes it fucking _is."_

Molly looked away.

"Oh God," said Meena. "Oh dear _God._ He has _your_ name, doesn't he? You and the nitwit detective, most likely. Oh my _god._ He has your fucking names. Oh _Christ."_

"Why is this so bad?" Molly demanded.

"Molly, it's one thing for you to have his name. One thing for you to be in love with a fucking criminal mastermind. It's a whole other thing for the criminal mastermind to love you _back."_

"Jim doesn't love me," said Molly immediately, and with conviction. "You're the one who keeps preaching that the names mean nothing."

Meena looked at her sceptically. "I hope for your sake he doesn't love you, Molly."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Molly defensively.

"I don't need to have a _reason_ to wish that a mass murder _not_ love my best friend."

* * *

November inched forward. That was the way winter passed, every time. Molly's winter clothing closet was a little light, but she hardly had the time to go shopping. She wore the same old jumpers over and over again, praying that the lack of decent gloves won't have her hands freezing. Breath began to ghost across the streets, rising from people's mouths and drifting away, like some _awful_ metaphor for existence.

Her earphones vibrated in her ear, " _We are ordinary people. Living ordinary lives."_

As if she didn't know that.

She fell asleep on the Tube. She didn't know what was going on with her sleep schedule – or the fatigue that had become an essential part of her everyday.

She didn't dream anymore. Sometimes, she'd have a stray dream in the middle of restless darkness – getting sleep was impossible. Her body collapsed whenever she slept, and more than that – it simply _blacked out._

Sometimes, she dreamed. Once she dreamed about dragons. She dreamed that dragons came to London, breathing fire and raining frustration and anger on everything they breathed on. She didn't have time to dream more than that – but she remembered running – away from flames. They seemed so fucking _real._ Jim had been there – Jim had grinned at her, right before he burned right with the dragons.

She'd woken up in cold sweat.

Someone was shaking her awake – she jerked herself awake, scared for half a second that she'd missed her station. Two stops away.

"Miss?" said the little girl who had been responsible for Molly not missing work. "You're bleeding."

Molly blinked at the girl – black, curly hair, dark complexion. Large lips, large eyes, freckled all over. Wait a second – _blood?_

"Christ," she murmured, touching her nose. Bleeding. As expected.

"Here," said the small girl. She gave her a handkerchief.

"Oh, no, you're gonna need that," said Molly. "I have a napkin somewhere."

"Okay," said the girl. "What did you dream about?"

"Nothing," said Molly, rummaging through her bag and emerging with a tissue.

"Wish I could do that," she said wistfully. "I have such nightmares. Mummy doesn't let me sleep with her anymore."

"What do you dream about?"

"Monsters. They're always coming for me."

"Oh yeah?" asked Molly.

"Yeah. Do you have nightmares?"

"Not anymore," said Molly quietly.

"No?" frowned the girl. "How come?"

Molly smiled. "Don't sleep that often. Besides, I live them now. Anyway. This is my stop. Take care."

"You're the one who was bleeding," said the girl, rolling her eyes.

Molly grinned. Time to deal with monsters. Molly Hooper, Monster Negotiator. It had a nice ring to it.

* * *

The house was quiet, smelling like lemon. She didn't want to know why.

It was a small house. London was expensive, so having a house bought way back when her Grandma was young and significantly less annoying was helpful. Molly supposed she got the house after her mother died, but she didn't care for it. It was too large for her tastes, even if it was small as houses go – it was too impossible. The kitchen was airy, pretty counter tops and everything. She had a view of the garden. The living room still felt like her grandma. It was painted with the colours of yellow and beige, as if that was her Grandma ever was.

Her Mum had never removed the bowl of toffees lying in the corner. Her Grandma used to keep them there, as if bribing kids with toffees helped. Molly hated that bowl – it stood in the corner, perfectly placed on the oak stool. The faded brown sofas and lace curtains were also very much her Grandma.

"Mum?" asked Molly softly.

It was a bit too quiet.

She felt the silence of _years._

She climbed upstairs. All the lights were turned off. Her Mum's room door was closed, and she heard the distinct tinkle of something that sounded very much like glass.

"Mum!" she yelled, diving for the door.

There was a lump in the bed, shrouded almost completely in shadows. She tore of the bedclothes to find a rather bemused mother under them.

"Oh thank _god,"_ Molly panted. The beside table featured a missing glass of water, with small shards very littered around the bed.

"What – Molly?" said her mother blearily.

Jane Hooper looked as tired as Molly felt. Molly had no idea why.

"Sorry – for waking you. Thought you'd done something dumb," Molly said, chewing her nails.

"Oh," said Mum. "Don't – panic. I wouldn't do anything. Not anymore."

"Why not?" asked Molly thoughtlessly.

"You care," said her Mum. "I don't know why, but you do. I can't afford to hurt you. I have a bad track record as _is."_

Molly's heart jumped to her throat.

"Molly, you look tired."

"Thanks, Mum," sighed Molly, bustling to open the curtains.

"Have you been getting enough sleep?" for a brief second, she frowned. She looked more like herself than _ever._

"No," groaned Molly. "I return home really late. I don't want to leave you alone. I barely get enough sleep with all the work piled on. Plus, Sherlock's driving me nuts over the Emilia Gates case. And Mike can't put any other pathologist for him, since he refuses to work with anyone else. It's just _annoying."_ She picked up all the laundry from the hamper, sorting out the whites and the colours.

"You should move here."

"And anyway, I can't keep asking Meena to come over – she has her own work – wait, what?"

"You should move here."

Molly frowned.

"Very funny, mother," she said, returning back to her sorting.

"I'm serious, Margaret," glared her Mum. Goodness, she was getting some of _herself_ back.

"No," said Molly flatly.

"Why not? I know it's not close to work, but it'll be more comfortable."

"No," repeated Molly. "I promised myself I would never live in this house again."

Molly's Mum looked a bit defeated. "You don't stumble around me anymore," she said finally.

"Come again?" asked Molly, putting all the whites in the laundry basket under the bed.

"You don't stumble. Over your words. Has something been happening?"

Molly bit her lip.

"Need a lot of confidence these days," she said eventually. "Can't negotiate with dragons if you can't speak to them."

She left the room, basket in hand. Cryptic. She was getting better at this – maybe one day, she would be a Consulting Detective. Or even a Criminal Mastermind.

* * *

 _You have one new message_

 **Meena Prakash**

 _REMINDER FOR MOLLY: IF YOU DON'T EAT YOUR FUCKING LUNCH EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY I SWEAR TO GOD MOLLY, I WILL FORCEFEED YOU._

 **Molly Hooper**

 _Ooh, scary. x Molly_

 **Meena Prakash**

 _Don't sass me. Eat your vegetables._

* * *

"Copper solution, Molly," said Sherlock, his violinist's hand reaching out unconsciously, eyes not moving from the test tube in front of him.

Molly handed it over wordlessly. She continued scribbling in the corner of the page.

Sherlock was unusually quiet today. It didn't matter to Molly, she was focussed on other things currently. Molly had reports to fill, dead people to cater to, and missing Criminal Masterminds.

"You've been busy," said Sherlock, continuing to stare at his test tube.

"Yes," she said without looking up from her own notes.

"Why have you been busy?" he asked. His concentration was on his experiment, which was what made the small talk even stranger.

"Mum's not well," said Molly shortly.

"I thought you didn't like your mother," said Sherlock. He continued with his experiment. "You called her an 'unpleasant woman,' as I recall."

"I don't. I mean – I do. It's complicated," she finished. "Why are you asking anyway? You hate small talk."

"It was bothering me. You seemed to be more tired than usual, yet you haven't been seeing anyone to explain away the hours you were spending on the Tube, travelling."

"How do you know I'm not dating?" asked Molly.

"You hum," he said. "When you have been dating. I thought you had been dating someone a couple of months back, it was almost _constant._ I was almost ready to suggest better songs to hum."

"Thanks, Sherlock," said Molly slowly.

"Who is he?" asked Sherlock.

Molly turned to her notes again. "No one important," she said.

Sherlock did something she hadn't seen him do for a long time: he looked at her. Carefully, intently, with a strange sort of expression. She didn't note how often he tried to not look at her until he was almost drinking her in. Molly shuddered.

"Sherlock, you're not using again?" she asked gently.

"No," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Last time you looked at me like that, I had to call your brother and make sure you didn't OD," she said. For some reason, her voice was a whisper.

"Pleasant memory?" he asked her.

"You tell me."

Molly tapped her pen incessantly. "Is everything alright, Sherlock?" she asked finally. "I don't – I don't want it going back to – whatever that was. I don't think either of us liked it, especially considering the number of times I had to get you out of it."

"I'm not using again, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock finally.

Both names. Never a good sign.

"Oh. It's your one year, isn't it?"

"Five years ago, yes," said Sherlock easily, as if it was nothing.

"Congratulations, Sherlock. Maybe this time we'll celebrate it on your birthday. And before you argue, I know my rights. I'm allowed one celebration a year with you, and I will make the most of it."

Sherlock snorted. "You have more rights than John." He returned to his experiment.

"He still doesn't know your birthday?"

"I'm sure he'll find out eventually. I'm not giving him any hints, if that's what you're asking."

"I'm just saying, it's lonely – two people sitting on a table, sharing a giant cake."

"You're the one who insists on the cake. We could easily have coffee."

"It's a _birthday,_ Sherlock," protested Molly, looking up at him. Sherlock sometimes gave her very strange looks, and this was one of them. Molly smiled at him hesitantly.

She returned to her notes just as Sherlock returned to his test tubes.

"I hope he's not a murderer, Molly," said Sherlock without looking at her.

Molly didn't trust herself to say anything in response.

* * *

By the time November froze into December, Molly was almost dead on her feet. Since her mother was better – she didn't have to go every day of the week. She went on weekends, but it ate a lot of her time for paper research. Riding the greasy, murky waters of London Underground didn't help Molly's mood.

And she'd get home, and pretty much collapse. Thank heavens Toby wasn't a fuss, Molly didn't know what she would do if she couldn't depend on leaving him home by himself.

Today was one of those days: the soles of her feet were screaming, demanding a rest. Her hair were everywhere, and she could feel every single part of her body ready to melt.

Which was why it was really upsetting to come home to someone already on the couch. Unfortunately for Molly, it wasn't the person she had been hoping for – although, all things considered, she was far too tired for sex.

Whoever was on her couch, on the other hand, seemed to have other ideas. For one thing, she was completely naked.

"You must be Molly!" said the woman.

Molly's threshold for weird had clearly increased, because she only blinked "Hi. Jim's? Or Sherlock's?"

"Both," grinned the woman.

Molly tilted her head to the side. "I'm Molly – but – um, you already knew that, didn't you? Sorry," she rambled. "Would you – um – would you like some dinner? I was going to make fried chicken."

"I'd love some," smiled the woman. "I'm Irene."

"Oh," said Molly, with a frown. "How can I help you? Besides the chicken? If it's Jim you want, I can't – he's – er – he's away. Um – also, could you – maybe, put some clothes on? Not that – not that I have a problem with the – erm, exhibitionist lifestyle or anything. It's just that – well, I'm feeling cold simply looking at you. It's _freezing._ "

Irene Adler had that funny look on her face that Jim had very early in his acquaintance with her. A look of _surprise._

 _Honestly, why did everyone find her general existence so surprising?_ thought Molly crossly. It was beginning to get on her nerves.

Irene turned around, wearing her loose red dress, and one of Molly's jumpers. "You don't seem particularly phased," she said.

"If I got phased everytime something startling happened, I would be dead by now," sighed Molly, heading to the kitchen. "Besides, it's nice to see a woman amongst – amongst all the works. I mean – don't get me wrong, Sherlock and Jim are both very smart – but men can – well , um. They can only go _so far._ I was wondering whether – erm, you know – there was sexism in the crime industry, and I mean – obviously, it's there. So it's nice to see a female super genius."

She frowned. "Although, all things considered, that shouldn't really be something for me to rejoice."

Irene smiled. "Oh, there's tonnes of sexism in the crime industry, darling, don't worry. You know, I have to sell my image as a dominatrix to get anything done. Apparently, the only powerful women around town are the ones who use sex to their advantage."

"Which is absurd," nodded Molly. "If women wanted to use sex to get power, they'd be perpetually dissatisfied, I've always thought." She leaned in to Irene, while simultaneously emptying her grocery bags. She looked at her conspirationally, saying, "I dunno if you've noticed, but men are _really bad at sex."_

Irene laughed. Molly was a bit surprised, but pleased. She reached for the glass bowls to make her egg dip.

"One of the many reasons that it's better to be gay," sang Irene.

"Meena says the same thing," sighed Molly. "And she's bisexual, so she knows both the sexes. Literally and figuratively."

Irene laughed again. She was even louder this time, which seemed to shock her. "You're a treat, Molly Hooper. I can see why he likes you."

Molly went pink. "What can I do for you?" she repeated.

"Well, I'm going to be quick, sweetheart," said Irene. "Sebastian and Jim don't know I'm here. Not that they would help me too much. Jim's been acting extremely funny these days anyway – unnecessarily cruel, and twice as manipulative, if you know what I mean. No honour amongst thieves, as you know. In any case, I found out a little bit about you and was rather prepared to blackmail you into helping me – however, it doesn't seem necessary. I need help faking my death, and word on the street is – you're the one who signs death certificates."

Molly's stomach sunk lower with every word Irene said.

"And I know it would violate many rules," said Irene hurriedly. "But there won't be much to do. There's a woman of about my size and weight, who will be wheeled into your morgue. Sherlock will most likely come to identify the body, and her face will be unrecognisable. He will confirm what is already visible, and I will need you to make sure the body comes through you alone. Make sure Sherlock does not see the report, not under any circumstances. The body _will_ have some discrepancies from mine, and while I'm not asking you to lie on the report – I want you to make sure _Sherlock_ gets a false one. The measurements of the other body do not fit perfectly, and he _will_ know."

Molly bit her lip.

"Before you ask, your other boy toy saw me naked only because I greeted him as I greeted you," winked Irene. "He will recognise the body instantly – but the measurements in the report need to corroborate what he knows my body size to be. You have to make sure he doesn't go sniffing up and down and figuring things out – and from what I can see, I think you'd be rather good at it."

"No, no," Molly shook her head. "No – I'm just – Molly, you know? I don't do a lot of distraction."

"Honey, bite your lip like that again, and you might drive even _me_ to distraction," said Irene cheerfully.

Molly blushed red.

"Oh, you'd be so easy to take to bed. I know exactly what Jim does in bed to get you going, and believe me – I could do it _better."_

"Um – you – you really like flustering me, don't you? I mean – not just – well, _you,_ specifically. You, Sherlock, Jim – the whole lot, I suppose."

Irene leaned away from Molly, still smirking.

"I need to ask you something," said Molly earnestly. "The woman – the one who's body it will be. What did she do?"

Irene tilted her head sideways and regarded Molly. "She killed a family while smuggling drugs, and did not manage to give the money to her suppliers. The Irish Mob's out for her, and lucky for us – their M.O. is destroying faces."

"Oh," said Molly. "Does she have family?"

"None that I know of."

"Could you find out?" asked Molly. "I – um – I sort of tell the families, and um – I know you'd be pretending to be dead, but I'd like to tell them eventually. When things are safe."

Irene was looking at her funny again. "Very well, Molly Hooper."

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" asked Molly. She dipped the chicken in the egg dip, and began preparing the flour for the crust.

"You wouldn't mind?" Irene asked, just as politely.

"No, I like company," said Molly happily. "It's been a bit lonely, last few weeks. You can come anytime, if you want. I only have Meena as a visitor, and Sherlock sometimes. But Sherlock comes at – erm, odd hours. Meena would like you."

"Sherlock comes to visit?" asked Irene.

"Sort of his bolt hole, my room," confessed Molly, pink in the cheeks again. She mixed paprika, thyme, basil, garlic salt into the flour. "I have a terrible backbone. But ever since he's been off drugs and with John, he's stopped. Sort of."

"Fascinating," muttered Irene. "And this Meena – your friend?"

"Yeah," nodded Molly enthusiastically. "Since school. She's a lot like you. Minus the genius bit."

"How did you know I was a genius?" asked Irene amusedly.

"You have that – _aura."_

Irene seemed to be smiling rather a lot. "I should like to meet Meena. She seems to be a sexual conquest I would enjoy."

Molly snorted. "She's in a committed relationship, unfortunately for you. I have a feeling this one will stick."

Irene watched Molly as she began to prepare salad and bread. "You're not worried about me using this information to blackmail you?" asked Irene, slowly.

Molly shrugged. "There's nothing I've told you that you wouldn't find out if you didn't put your mind to it. And besides, why would you ever need to blackmail me? Short of doing something _truly_ horrific, I don't need manipulation."

"And what constitutes as 'truly horrific?" asked Irene.

Molly motioned Irene to lean in. Irene did so, but with a lot of amusement. "I'm not very keen on murder, animal cruelty, and –" she paused, chewed her lip hesitantly, and continued, "Insulting _Harry Potter._ Or anything too horrible to books, in general. Or their authors. Or the actors who play the characters. Unless, of course, they did something horrible."

Irene leaned back and guffawed openly. Molly felt rather pleased with herself.

* * *

Sebastian glanced at the boss. He didn't seem particularly off kilter today, which was saying something. The usual amount of madness, Sebastian supposed. It wasn't a very good sign, but it was what he had.

Not that the boss had been acting strange – or something. He had been his best version of normal – whatever that was. In any case, Sebastian hadn't seen any cause for concern. Five or six deaths, a smuggling ring for exotic animals – a few orders for drugs, the Mexican cartel obliterated, and one politician manipulated mercilessly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Why did he get the distinct feeling that there was something off about the boss?

He shouldn't be obsessing. Jim Moriarty's obsessions weren't his concerns, not unless he was ordered to care about them. And while the boss hadn't been visiting Molly Hooper for a while, it wasn't like Sebastian had been ordered to cause Molly any harm. He should keep his nose out of this business. Hopefully, things will stop being… off.

He returned to look at the video feed. Their manipulated politician was saying goodbye to his wife, which wasn't particularly interesting. He looked at the boss again.

Jim Moriarty was watching rather intently as the couple on the screen kissed. Sebastian must have imagined it, because it felt rather out of character – but he could swear that the boss touched his lips gently, almost unconsciously – for the smallest, tiniest second.

* * *

 **Reviews make me happpppy**


	11. A Christmas Interlude

**HI ALL. SORRY FOR THE LATENESS, BUT THIS TIME, IT WASN'T MY FAULT.**

 **Tarang. She didn't beta for AGES. Also pls forgive her she is a very busy girl and if anything is missed out by her its because she is literally DYING.**

 **I also want to take a moment to sincerely thank everyone for being nice about my mental state. I want to do it so sincerely, I suppressed the urge to add a "lol" at the end of this sentence. Love you all lol xoxo Ridiculosity is awkward with her love.**

 **LASTLY: This is an interludey chapter. Hence the unsubtle name.**

* * *

That bloke that had come regularly at the bird's home had stopped coming. He'd reported it to Moran, and Moran had seemed unsurprised.

The assignment was beginning to drain Kurt. Here he was, stuck on Christmas, watching a woman who seemed to lead a profoundly boring life for someone whose every move was being watched by someone who paid as well as Moran did. He sincerely hoped that Moran didn't love her or something, she seemed to be rather smitten by that nutty bloke who would come at eleven at night.

* * *

Everything was decked in red. Molly loved the red and the greens and everything – Christmas could be nice – in theory. For her – and for a majority of adults, Christmas was just a maze of bad memories. Molly didn't bother trying to shield herself from them, either. After all, her teenage angst was simply adulthood anxiety.

Besides, whenever a bad memory came up about Christmas, it was almost always followed by the reminder that after Christmas was done, Meena and Molly had a post Christmas ritual of drinking whiskey, and sharing the only smoke of the year. It wasn't much of a ritual, but post-Christmas was when they had shared their first cigarette – and that was back in ninth grade. Now, they shared cigars. It added a little class to the coping strategy, and as Meena said, "no need to half ass the _one_ bad ritual we have."

Meena might not need the trauma recovery, since she would be spending her Christmas with Lizzie, and Lizzie was an orphan. It sounds better on paper than it should be, and Molly was envious. Meanwhile, she'd be with her Mum on Christmas day, and 221B for Christmas Eve. Needless to say, she wasn't looking forward to Christmas Eve anymore than she was looking forward to Christmas Day.

She missed Jim.

God, it was beginning to annoy her how regularly she thought about him – especially since she didn't even know if he had simply gotten cold feet, or if he was planning her murder. Both seemed plausible outcomes.

What would Jim like her to do for Christmas?

She rolled her eyes. Most likely, cause an international incident. Merry Christmas, indeed.

It sounded a bit unimaginative, though. If Molly was trying to get into Jim's mind, she ought to go a little further than "violently insane." What _would_ Jim like?

Jim might appreciate it more if he knew that she was planning to fake a death around Christmas. Not her own, obviously – but it should count for _something._ It was an exciting Christmas; she had never conspired with a dominatrix before. In the spirit of the occasion, she should really deck out – in terms of clothes. That's something Jim would appreciate: a planned conspiracy, overdramatic clothing that was meant to catch Sherlock's attention, and, perhaps, one dead body. Sounded like Christmas at the Moriarty family. Then again, Molly _really_ didn't want to know what Christmas at the Moriarty family was actually like.

She'd made up her mind.

She dialled Meena almost immediately. The phone rang twice.

" _Molly,"_ stated Meena.

"Hey," said Molly. "Listen, I need a favour."

" _I refuse, categorically, to help you with your last minute Christmas shopping. Or any horrific conspiracy you have planned over Christmas."_

"How did you know?" teased Molly.

" _You have that look in your eye. That one that you had when you were planning to poison James, back in tenth grade."_

"I didn't _poison_ him, Meena, don't be dramatic."

" _Boy got diarrhoea. All because he made the mistake of standing me up."_

"It was only _laxatives._ Anyway, this isn't dangerous or anything – I just need to go shopping."

" _What for?"_

 _"_ John and Sherlock are having a Christmas party."

 _"_ _Ah. That would do it."_

* * *

Molly chewed her lip. She'd already wrapped Sherlock's present, carefully and deliberately in red wrapping paper – she had a feeling he would associate it with Irene. Irene hadn't told her much, but it seemed that she was rather keen on flustering Sherlock as well – red seemed to be her colour.

Molly would like to be associated with red.

She'd preserved a rare species of bee for Sherlock. She knew that was more expensive than needed, and perhaps a touch too personal – but she couldn't help herself, she had a difficult time choosing for him. In contrast, John had been ridiculously easy. One jumper, and she was done. Similarly, she knew all Greg would really like would be a cheesy mug – so she'd had one personalised. With Mrs. Hudson, she'd thought about it – and gotten her hands on some of the better _herbal soothers_ from the lab. Some of them were her own invention.

Molly had even managed to get something nice for Meena – a rather expensive dress she'd had her eye on, and a bottle of wine they would normally not drink for movie nights. She hadn't bothered getting her Mum anything much. She'd bought her a pretty notebook – it hurt her heart to buy anything more.

She began on John's present. On her laptop, _Amazon_ was still open – not necessarily for last minute shopping. She'd simply taken to browsing it at times, thanks to Christmas.

On a hunch, she typed something in the search bar.

It took a little searching, but she found what she was looking for. It was impulsive, she wasn't sure if he would like it, but _she_ thought it was funny. And honestly, who cared for anything else anymore?

* * *

Meena frowned at her. "You know this isn't going to be a straight experience, right? You're not going to walk into the dressing room, emerge looking like some kind of queen or whatever – the lighting will be perfect, and you'll smile like and angel – yet nervously, of course – and I'd go, 'that's the one. That's the dress.'"

"Why have you been watching so much TV?" asked Molly, exasperated. She grabbed another dress from the racks.

"I can't help it. Bisexual representation is terrible, the only thing I have is stuff that caters to my minimal straight side."

"Yes, good excuse, idiot," said Molly. She went inside the dressing room for the fifth time. "I'm not trying anymore after this," she called out. "We're picking between the floral one and the black one after this."

"What are you looking for, anyway?" asked Meena.

Molly shut her eyes. "Dramatic."

"Dramatic," repeated Meena in monotone.

"Dramatic."

"This won't be the taste of mass murderers?"

"Yeah," said Molly. " _Dramatic."_

"You are genuinely a mess," said Meena. "I hope I never have to meet the other people of your life. Who will you bring out of the box next? A blackmailer? A super genius, running the country?"

"A dominatrix."

Molly opened the door and stepped out of the dressing room, in a green dress. Meena's face was priceless.

"A dominatrix," she repeated.

"A dominatrix. She's taken a shine to you, I told her a little about you."

Meena blinked. "Molly, I quit as your friend. The hours are weird, the pay is substandard, and frankly, you are nuts."

"Thanks," said Molly. "What do you think?" she gestured to her dress.

"Go with the black one," Meena said, rolling her eyes.

* * *

Once they got home, Meena changed into her red kurta. Red suited her, and Molly loved it when Meena wore kurtas. Meena had even gotten her a couple, and Molly understood why the functionality of something so comfortable could only work in a country as hot as India. Nevertheless, she could wear it inside the house – which she frequently did.

Molly began to do her make up.

"You're heading straight to Lizzie's?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Meena, wearing warmers under her salwar. "What's that?" added Meena, looking at the present in her room.

"I got something for Jim," Molly confessed.

"Has he contacted you at all?" asked Meena. She began to apply her make up as well.

Molly shook her head. "No," she said.

"How are you planning to give it to him, then? And what _is_ it?"

Molly blushed. "A tie pin. It's shaped like the femur. And at the back, the pin is like a sword. I thought it was funny."

Meena snorted. "You would." She weighed the present. "This is bigger than a tiny tie pin, though."

"I also got him a book of Sudoku," Molly said. She chewed her lip. "Personal joke."

"Mmhmm," murmured Meena, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Wrapped in red."

Molly turned. Her make-up was done, and she carefully took off her bathrobe. Meena gave her a once over.

"You look good," she nodded. "Don't be afraid."

 _Don't be afraid._

* * *

By the time she had reached 221B, she had vaguely forgotten whatever Meena had told her. In a slightly blind panic, she considered whether or not this was dumb, whether or not she should just head home and call it day, or whether or not she'd have to fake _her_ death to avoid the embarrassment that this party would almost definitely ensue.

She shook her head. One faked death was enough for Christmas. Besides, what had Irene said? Distract him long enough for the message to come in. And then, all she had to do was quietly wait and do the autopsy.

She knocked on the door – despite the fact that it was open, and had a note that said ' _Just come in,'_ in what looked suspiciously like Sherlock's handwriting. When she heard sounds upstairs, she crossed the threshold carefully.

 _Into battle._

As she came up, she saw a rather harried John shepherd his girlfriend away from Sherlock. She cringed at the very thought of it.

"Oh, dear _lord,"_ muttered Sherlock, just as Molly walked in. Molly stopped herself from flinching.

She smiled, careful not to step on any toes. She liked what she was wearing – the dress was, admittedly, not very her – but the Christmas bow was.

"Hello everyone. Sorry, hello," she said. John smiled at her gently, and Molly felt relieved.

"Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other. How wonderful!" said Sherlock. Molly knew Sherlock didn't normally _do_ this. In the six years she had known him, he'd only celebrated Christmas with her once, and that was before he went to rehab. It had been a lonely Christmas, that one.

"Erm – it said on the door just to come up," she said, by way of explanation. She was sure no one really cared.

John's girlfriend – Jeanette, Molly thought was her name, greeted her. Lestrade smiled. John was about to take her coat from her.

"Let me, er –" he said, as Molly steeled herself and took the thing off. "Holy Mary!" said John.

Even Lestrade looked shocked. Molly was pleased, but she was also rather uncomfortable.

"Wow!" said Lestrade."

"Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" asked Molly. Her mind was racing for small talk conversation topics – and that small part of her that still hoped Sherlock would look.

Sherlock, on the other hand, sat down at the table. "No stopping them, apparently."

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!" said Mrs. Hudson.

Molly laughed nervously. She glanced at Sherlock, as John brought her a chair. Sherlock called John over to the laptop, and Molly reconsidered faking her death. Greg touched her to get her attention, and asked, "Molly? Want a drink?"

Liquid courage, she supposed.

"How's the hip?" she asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking," said Mrs. Hudson amiably.

"I've seen much worse, but then I do post mortems," Molly joked. Mrs. Hudson's face fell, just a little bit.

"Oh God," she muttered. "Sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock ordered her.

 _Jim would have found it funny._

The stray thought was inescapable.

"No," she said distantly. "Sorry."

Lestrade handed her some wine, which made her feel a bit better. She mined her memory for more tidbits, and attempted to try again. "Thank you. I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."

"That's the first thing in the morning, me and the wife," said Greg. "We're back together. It's all sorted."

Molly seriously doubted it – from what she remembered of Kate was that she was notoriously hard to pin down. Besides, Greg looked worn and tired, and was at this party alone. It didn't sit right.

"No, she's sleeping with the P.E teacher," said Sherlock, voicing her thoughts, and doing it cruelly. Molly flinched this time. She'd have a word with Sherlock later.

"And John. I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?"

"Yeah," said John.

"Sherlock was complaining."

Complaining was putting it mildly. It was all Sherlock had spoken about, in her apartment, in the morgue. Sherlock looked at her indignantly. Molly hastened to correct herself.

"… saying."

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."

That didn't make sense to Molly either. She hadn't met Harry, but she'd gathered what she could from the comments on the blog. John's sister didn't seem to be the kind who went on a path of self discovery.

"Nope," said Sherlock, again voicing her thoughts.

"Shut up, Sherlock," said John.

Sherlock's ire, which was already rather easy to inflame on this night, turned to Molly. Molly swallowed, preparing herself. "I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?" asked Molly. No one could be serious about Jim.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

She _was_ seeing Irene later, and after that, she was going to her mother's in the morning. Could Irene qualify as a romantic interest? She felt like Irene wouldn't mind being qualified as a romantic interest.

"Take a day off," muttered John.

"Shut up and have a drink," Lestrade added.

Molly privately prayed that Sherlock would listen. She wasn't in the frame of mind to be picked on.

"Oh come on, surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash, at best." He stands, picks it from her bag, and Molly braced herself.

Sherlock didn't deduce her often. She hadn't noticed this at first, but after a few years, she realised that he didn't. She didn't know _why,_ but he didn't.

And when he did, everything came tumbling out. She didn't know what it was about her that irked him so, that annoyed him to the point where she shouldn't be able to stand. Crushing her came to him as easily as breathing – perhaps it was his own understanding of her affection for him. Perhaps it was his memory of his time in rehab – which, unfortunately, Molly and Mycroft had been privy to.

"It's for someone special, then."

She waited, knowing what was to come. It had happened to her twice in six years, but it had prepared her.

"Shade of red echoes her lipstick - either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. In fact, that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all - that would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn - and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing - obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."

There it was.

Sherlock was still smiling smugly when he looked at the card on the present, patently addressing him.

Molly was standing before him, contemplating her next move. A part of her wanted to cry, and a little bit of that came out when she gasped.

She was not going to stand here and _beg_ for these Gods to treat her right.

"You always say such horrible things," she said, finally. "Every time. Always. Always."

Why should she accuse _him_ of wrongdoing, his identity for who he was? She was going to make him look at what was wrong, and see that it _was._

No one said anything for god knows how many horrible minutes.

"I am sorry," said Sherlock finally. "Forgive me."

Molly looked up at him, his eyes. This was new.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said. Both names. Never a good sign. He bent down, kissing her on the cheek.

That was when Irene's signal came through.

* * *

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," said Sherlock.

"That's okay," said Molly. "Everyone else was busy with… Christmas."

She felt better out of the dress. As Irene had promised, the body looked like her. "The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be difficult."

"That's her, isn't it?" asked Mycroft.

"Show me the rest of her," said Sherlock. Molly had been expecting it, and had perfected her look of puzzlement for the occasion. She needn't have – no one ever paid any attention to her.

"That's her," said Sherlock conclusively.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," said Mycroft unnecessarily.

Molly ought to ask something. "Who is she? How did Sherlock recognise her from… not her face?"

Mycroft smiled banally at her. Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

* * *

Once they had gone, Molly climbed up to the terrace, where Irene was waiting. Irene grinned at her as she opened the door. She dumped her bag at her feet, standing in the freezing cold to look at Irene.

"Hi," said Molly. "They bought it. I'll have the false report on Sherlock's desk tomorrow."

"Good job, Molly Hooper," said Irene.

"Thanks," Molly said, her eyes downcast.

"You're sad," stated Irene.

"I am," said Molly. She looked up at the sky, hoping to see some stars.

"I hope it gets better," said Irene.

"It won't," said Molly. "But thank you. It's been nice to have company, last few weeks."

"You're rather lonely, aren't you?"

"Aren't you?" asked Molly, eyebrows raised.

"Not as much as you are," said Irene.

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Molly.

"I wonder, sometimes," said Irene. "What part of you is it that has you still alive?"

Molly shrugged. "Ask him. I'd like to say that it is the part that's me, but I'm not an idiot."

"You're smarter than you think, honey," Irene winked. "Anyway. Have to be going now."

"It was nice, really. Come again sometime. I can't promise you much, but we could watch a movie together," said Molly. "Maybe I'll call Meena as well. She's curious."

Irene laughed. "I'll be in touch, Molly. I mean it."

"Good," nodded Molly. "I'm disappointed I didn't get to see your names. You were stark naked, and you managed to hide them. Still, I suppose – some things, best kept secret. I'm terrified your arm will say something I wouldn't want to see."

Irene winked at her. "You're a more likely candidate, dear."

Molly blushed. "Before I forget –" she picked up the bag at her feet. "Here. I have no idea where you're going, but I packed some essentials. Carbs only, for energy, and some tampons and sanitary napkins. You never know."

Irene smiled even more broadly. "Thank you, again."

Molly grinned, finally. She wished Irene well – but Molly's wishes were nothing to go by. Right now, she was wishing she could step off the building and become the wind.

* * *

Molly went downstairs to the locker, picked up her bag of presents – only to find it empty.

She'd left John's and Greg's at the party. There had been only one thing in the bag, and that had been Jim's. She wasn't sure where it was gone. She could have sworn she'd left it there. Maybe she forgot it at her apartment when she went there for a change of clothes?

* * *

On her way home, the wind hit her face with the force and power of banishing her memory of summer. She couldn't help curl up tighter into her coat, wonder if she should take a cab, and continue soldiering on – with some perverse fascination in seeing how much pain it would take her to finally drop dead.

Another blast of wind had her stopping on her tracks. She sat down on the park bench near her, pressed her face into her hands, and cried.

When you cry, there's always that subconscious part of you that wants to stop yourself from the vulnerability. As if tears were some sort of indicator of a pain caused by someone else – and someone _else_ need never know that they caused pain. In freezing London, on Christmas Eve night, Molly Hooper fought every urge within herself and cried without stopping.

If anyone could hear her, obviously, the tears would not have existed.

Over her, the moon watched London, shining dim light into the corners for some relief. London shimmered, hovering between reality and magic, while Molly Hooper's tears dried on the sidewalk and park bench – to be walked on in the morning by the thousands who were attempting, with every breath of the day, to not cry – for there were too many people watching. The street glittered with an odd sort of brightness, and the security cameras aimed at Molly almost seemed to be saying something to her.

As if there was someone watching on the other end.

* * *

By the time the business with Lee was done, the Boss was back on his obsession with Sherlock Holmes. In a way, it was sort of relieving. Sebastian wasn't sure why, but there it was.

Irene had gone underground again, and Moran hadn't a clue what she was planning. His meticulous mind was made for the military – not for the politics of manipulation. She had enough to blackmail anyone to hell and back, so the assumption was that she was fine. The Boss didn't seem worried – in fact, he seemed oddly prepared.

When Sebastian entered the office, Jim Moriarty was listening to classical music and waltzing.

"Sebby, what do you have for me?"

"There's a party at Baker Street," said Sebastian, rifling through his papers. "Lee has left the country, but I've already contacted Poland – they're ready for him."

"I wonder why _I_ wasn't on the guest list," said the Boss, turning sharply and stopping abruptly.

"If you want, the feed is up and running," said Moran.

The Boss winked at him. "Thank you, darling," he said. "Do me a favour, get me some le – chocolate pastries. It's _Christmas,_ after all. Have to put on some holiday weight."

Moran left the room.

* * *

Jim observed his own reflection in the mirror over his desk. It wasn't there to be symbolic, it had simply been a part of the room and Moran hadn't shifted it.

He turned to the desk, using the remote to blow up his favourite TV show. The adventures of the littlest Holmes, and his tinier pet.

Holmes seemed to have stopped playing his music when something… interesting – happened.

Jim felt a sharp twinge in his stomach when Molly walked in. Although the feed was black and white, Jim knew, through simple deduction ( _instinct)_ what her colours for the night were. Her coat was black, her lipstick red, and her face her shade of nervous. Jim's eyes roved over the feed, careful to note the only part of her that was deliberately and distinctly her.

The Christmas bow.

Molly seemed to be the kind who would love Christmas. Everything about the holiday reeked her – the red, the green, the silliness of the jumpers – drinking. Everything she loved.

And yet, Molly Hooper didn't look happy.

He was surprised that Prodigal Sherlock had invited her. Then again, it might be more Won Jotson than Sherlock.

 _"_ _Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other. How wonderful!"_ said Holmes.

Jim tilted his head to the side.

Molly looked a bit wrong footed for a second. Jim gently picked up a pencil from his desk unconsciously, watching her.

" _Erm – it said on the door to just come up,"_ she said.

He hadn't heard her voice in a month. The black and white feed didn't show it, but the corners of Molly's mouth turned in the tiniest way, showing the thinnest of lines on her cheek when she was feeling nervous.

She was planning something. He didn't have anything concrete to base this on, but he knew.

 _"_ _Let me – er,"_ said the Good Doctor, with the familiar perpetual bamboozlement in his voice. " _Holy Mary!"_

Jim gripped the pencil.

 _"_ _Wow!"_ said the moronic Police Detective.

Molly looked –

She looked –

Odd.

Pretty, obviously. Jim, however, didn't feel _aroused,_ as such – which he found… interesting _._ There was a strange sensation at the back of his throat, one that he was sure was something to do with her.

He rolled the image of Molly in his mind – the black, shimmering dress – courage written over it, yet anxiety plastered over the edges that held it together. And that was when he noticed how Molly glanced at Sherlock over and over again.

Molly had been planning something.

Molly was dressed in a rather distinctly attractive way.

Molly was nervous.

Jim regarded her on the screen again. He felt something that was – rather curiously ( _suspiciously)_ like jealousy.

Who was Molly Hooper attempting to tempt? She was gathering the wrong attention – if Lestrade looked at her again in that way, Jim might have to dispatch a few orders.

Molly would hate that. He ought to do it on principle.

Unfortunately, she was still on the screen – being _interesting._ And anyway, he'd rather not kill the detective at the moment, since he shouldn't jeopardise his relationship with his other soulmate.

 _"_ _How's the hip?"_ asked Molly.

" _Oh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking,"_ said the Landlady.

" _I've seen much worse, but then I do post mortems,"_ said Molly.

Jim chuckled.

He was alone, however. Sherlock ordered her, a second after her apology, _"don't make jokes, Molly."_

Jim contemplating killing Sherlock and being done with it.

And then Molly Hooper made small talk. She was _chatting._

He would have ordered her to stop being boring if he wasn't drinking her in.

This was a strange obsession he had developed.

 _"_ _I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him,"_ began Holmes in his characteristically annoying way.

Well, Jim wouldn't call himself a boyfriend – but whatever floated Molly's boat.

" _Sorry, what?"_ she asked cluelessly.

 _"_ _Oh come on, surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash, at best."_ He stood as he said this, picking the bright red present. What a fool.

 _"_ _It's for someone special, then."_

Jim rolled his eyes. Besides, Holmes was irritatingly blocking his view of Molly – which he didn't appreciate. He wondered how far Sherlock would go in his attempt to hurt Molly, and he wondered how much she would tolerate. The pencil in Jim's hand was tightly held, as he watched Sherlock approach her.

 _"_ _Shade of red echoes her lipstick - either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. In fact, that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all - that would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn - and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing - obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."_

The pencil snapped.

Jim's nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing. He watched Sherlock Holmes look at a Molly Hooper who seemed ready to cry, and wondered, idly, if he should have it done gang style – parts of Sherlock's body strewn across London, or something similar.

But Molly surprised him again. She didn't _cry._

 _"_ _You always say such horrible things_ ," she said finally. " _Every time. Always. Always."_

He wondered how many different battles she'd fought since he had last seen her.

And then Sherlock Holmes did something quite strange. He apologised.

" _I am sorry. Forgive me."_ Sherlock paused, and Jim leaned in, waiting. _"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."_

Holmes bent down to kiss Molly.

 _Fascinating._

Whatever part of him had been jealous was a lot more burning now. Molly's lips flashed before his eyes.

And that was when Adler's text came through.

* * *

Adler had to leave, and he had no idea how she had orchestrated her death. He didn't quite care – orchestrating deaths was boring business, unless you had something truly ingenius in mind. Or unless, of course, someone wildly inappropriate for the job was attempting to have a hand in it.

Molly was curled up at home, probably. She'd reached only a few seconds back, and Jim had lost all visual of her after the door was shut. It was Molly who had negotiated her privacy, and Jim respected the victory of a good adversary.

It was a few minutes later that she left the home again. She looked harried – as she always did. But right this moment, she also looked vaguely prepared.

Jim shut his eyes again.

He picked up his phone and called for his car.

* * *

This was a bad idea.

Molly's door was locked.

It was odd for him to be so impulsive. Contrary to popular belief, Jim Moriarty almost always had a plan.

* * *

The door opened gently, without any struggle whatsoever. Molly left her key in the potted plant by the corner, which wasn't even a deduction at this point. He hadn't even rolled his eyes when he found the key.

The apartment was dark and cold. Either the heat was out, or Molly had turned it off. Toby was not curled up in some corner. He watched him from the table, his lamp-like eyes glowing, challenging him.

He'd become some sort of _boring_ , disgusting addict – smelling Molly in the sofa, her cooking in the sink, her anxiety in the clothes strewn across her bed, her stupidity in the present that was lying on the coffee table. He was being _boring._

He was playing nothing, standing here, looking at the present she'd bought for her Mum, the expensive dress he presumed was Meena's – not to mention whoever the hell lay claim to some more of her affection, the owner of the third present.

It was _red._ The wrapping paper, that is.

He had thought the red wrapping paper was meant for the dearestMr. Holmes. Jim tilted his head to the side. His hands were deep in his pockets, hunched a little bit as he regarded the small present. He approached it with a certain sense of curiosity.

* * *

"Nice tie clip," commented Moran when he returned to the car.

"Thank you," gushed Jim.

"You going to tell me what you're doing about her?" asked Moran.

"I'm going to assign her a _smidge_ more security," said Jim.

* * *

"Anything else for today, Sebastian, my love?" asked Jim, relaxing behind his desk.

"Nothing," said Sebastian. "Oh. Molly Hooper is walking alone in London. Not necessarily a security risk, Kurt is following her closely. Currently she's stopped somewhere, sitting on a park bench, I think. Here's her location."

Jim smiled. "Meticulous as always, darling."

Ever since the incident with thunder, Sebastian had been oddly more prudent about giving him updates on Molly's location. It was a touching – if not disconcerting – thought.

He picked up his phone.

 _Hello, England_ , he typed.

 **Ice Man Lol**

 _What do you want, Mr. Moriarty?_

 _Teeny tiny bit of help_ , typed Jim back. _I would hack the security cameras myself, but you know – tedious. And long winded. Could you give me a hand?_

 **Ice Man Lol**

 _It's been a long day. Can't you do something banal, traffic some humans, and be done with it?_

 _Adler got you, didn't she?_ asked Jim.

 **Ice Man Lol**

 _You have ten minutes. Tell me the location._

* * *

 _Google Alert_

 _25_ _th_ _December: Christmas Day!_

 _You have one new message_

 **Molly**

 _Happy Christmas, Jim._

* * *

 **REVIEWS ARE FODDER AND I AM HUNGRY**


	12. Long is the Way and Hard

**HI EVERYONE. I MISSED Y'ALL.**

 **This is gonna be another slow chapter cause I like drawing it out :)))**

 **On another note, we're hurtling to the finish! I have only three more chapters after this planned :O**

* * *

Eurus had become almost as dramatic as her brothers.

Silhouetted against the light and everything. _Christ_ , thought Jim. What's next? A cliffside meeting? Perhaps against the backdrop of a setting sun?

"Hello, dear," said Jim cheerfully. "Nice to see you up and about. Wonderfully dramatic of you."

Eurus turned around rather slowly. Jim rolled his eyes.

"You're one to talk," she said easily.

"H- _i,"_ sang Jim. He shoved his hands into his pockets and regarded her. Rather windblown, if he did say so himself. His fingers itched to touch the glass, tap against it. One, two, three – every little element of it becoming impossibly hard for her to ignore, and perhaps – one beat out of tune with whatever he _was_ tapping. But he refrained. There was no point antagonising Eurus Holmes, not when he was rather surrounded.

"Hello," she nodded.

"What's _cookin?"_ asked Jim.

She smiled carefully. Jim could sense her fingers – on the side of her thigh. As he tilted his head, she blinked. Her arms were bandaged, hiding the names that must be lying under the bandages. Jim could hear her breathe, despite the fact that it should be impossible for that to happen.

Two impossibilities in one room.

"I've been meaning to ask you, _Jimmy,"_ she said. "Have you been bored, lately?"

Jim bared his teeth in a sort of grin. "As much as you have."

"That does sound _dreadful,"_ said little Holmes. "Although, I confess – I've been rather entertained, in the last few weeks."

"Is that so?" asked Jim, his hand reaching for his blazer button and undoing it.

She stepped forward.

"Oh, _yes."_

"Do tell," said Jim softly.

"Why has my brother been gallivanting peaceably?" she asked. "Not to mention Irene Adler… dear, dear. I'd have thought you'd have prevented that."

"I had other business that night, my love," said Jim, in the voice of a confessor who refused to repent. "Lucky her. She got to live."

"I'd have thought you'd have used his attachment to her," said little Holmes, stepping forward again. "You've been interfering – in all the wrong ways."

Jim's seven-hundred-pound shoes inched forward. "Romantic attachments are _boring_ fodder for entertainment. Cheap thrills, I say."

"Is it?" asked little Holmes. Her fingers danced in the air, playing Beethoven's Moonlight sonata. "I've been wondering what you think of that little Pathologist – the one my brother hangs _out_ with." Her face glowed. "What was her name? Doctor Hopper?"

The muscle in Jim's jaw jumped.

"Or was it _Cooper?"_ continued Eurus.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" asked Jim gently.

"Hooper, isn't it, Jim?" she asked. "A good pawn for the beginning of the game, especially if you don't stop interfering in _all the wrong ways."_

Jim chuckled. He turned to look at his side. His hand rubbed his stubble, and he stepped forward again.

"Why do you want, little Holmes?" he asked.

"I like _games."_

"Well, this one isn't for you to play," said Jim. His nose was terribly, _terribly_ close to the glass. "You gave me free reign over Sherlock Holmes, darling. You wanted your enacted family drama – carefully orchestrated to design. I got to play my game. You got your soap opera."

"Maybe I'd like a switch," she said. Her face – also nearly touching the glass – was ghostly white. Eurus Holmes, more concept than person – stood before him, tragically, tragically beautiful.

Tragically, tragically bored.

Tragically, tragically lonely.

"Listen to me," whispered Jim. "You don't play with Molly Hooper. I will know. I will know, no matter who wins or loses _my_ game. She's not on the goddamn board, she's not a fucking extra in your drama, and she's not – _to – be – touched."_

Eurus' pupils had dilated.

"I have to say, I'm a little aroused, James."

"Would you like me to do something about that?" asked Jim, tilting his head.

"I don't fuck married men," said little Holmes with a wink. She stepped away from the glass. "All those years ago, when you met me – I didn't think it would come to this, _Jimmy._ And you – who told me how to do this. I always wanted a bit of an upper hand on you, and I confess, I'm _delighted._ Something so terribly – _banal."_

"Spare me the lecture," said Jim. "What else would you like to add? _Love is a weakness,_ perhaps."

Eurus turned again to look at him. "Oh, no, never a _weakness,"_ she said. "Love is an experiment. Testable. Breakable. Surveyable. Would you like to subject yourself to it?"

Jim gritted his teeth.

"Maybe Molly Hooper would be more amenable to it," she said.

 _Th-UMP!_

Jim's fist – tightened for the last fifteen minutes, lost control. "Try me, darling."

"Always a pleasure," said Eurus.

* * *

When Jim left the island, his first call was to Moran.

" _Boss?"_ answered Moran promptly.

"I need you to call Irene Adler."

" _What?"_ asked Moran. " _She's dead, sir."_

"Don't be slow, Moran," said Jim.

* * *

 _Red._

That was the first thing he saw on Irene. She wasn't wearing black, she was dressed in blood red. Her dress curved on her body almost unconsciously, and pinned on her dress was a white gladiola.

She looked at him, up to down. "Blue. It suits you, Mr. Moriarty."

"Red," he said. "And white."

"Romance is in the air, after all," Irene purred.

"Do I have to make death threats to you as well?" asked Jim boredly.

"No," she said. "Surprisingly enough, I liked Molly Hooper. She was… interesting."

"Did you?" asked Jim.

"We've been _texting,"_ Adler said deliberately.

"Texting," repeated Jim.

"Nothing too incriminating, don't worry," added Irene. "Just a little bedroom gossip. She doesn't tell me about you, which is disappointing, but she has some stories. Heterosexuality is a bit of a curse."

"I wouldn't know," said Jim.

"Neither would I. Yet here we are."

* * *

It wasn't that Moran would not manage to handle Molly Hooper – it was simply that Irene was better equipped to handle everything else that came with it. Irene Adler was in a unique position where she could negotiate with Mycroft Holmes.

Not now, not immediately. But when the time came, when the plane of dead men was discovered – and when Sherlock Holmes lost, Irene Adler would be able to ask one thing of the good people on the other side:

Protect Molly Hooper.

An easy thing to ask for.

"Don't lose, darling," Jim added. "I would be rather annoyed. Give the virgin my love. And ask the Ice Man to pay a little attention to me."

Irene practically grinned. "It's a good thing I was planning on returning anyway – you know, murderers and how hard they are to shake off. If I hadn't been planning on returning, after all – you'd already have lost."

* * *

It was a little strange how little thought he had given his rather abrupt departure from what he was previously pursuing in Molly. Up until that point there was quite a lot to _angst_ over – to stare at, to watch from a distance. To mourn his loss as if he was a trite boy in a coming of age movie.

Almost as soon as the other players entered the chessboard, Molly had to be escorted out. He didn't care what it took on his side, or who he had to kill for this. There was little left to _think_ about.

It felt bizarrely easy.

All the alternatives that occurred to him one after the other were filed away for safekeeping. A fund was made for Molly Hooper – should she ever need a new home, a new life, a new pair of shoes (something Jim was strongly advising Moran to force her to get). If Molly ever found herself without academic funding, it would be handled.

Jim had even managed to set up a separate fund for her friend Meena, who worked with the sociology and psychology of the Names and seemed to face unceasing backlash. He had a feeling it was more to do with her gender and skin colour than it was to do with the controversy of what she was researching, but it could go either way.

The best way to play a game was to not care about the consequences. _Fuck_ Molly Hooper for making _that_ an impossibility.

* * *

He watched the feed intently. On his orders, this time, there was colour.

Molly Hooper fluttered in front of the camera, her side plait clipped with a hair tie that Jim was _sure_ had a pattern of butterflies on it.

 _"_ _Is that a phone?"_ asked Molly to the one and only, Sherlock Holmes.

" _It's a camera phone."_

 _"_ _And you're X-raying it,"_ continued Molly. Jim wondered why this was surprising her so. She hadn't been particularly taken aback when she had found out that someone had been following her.

" _Yes, I am,"_ said Sherlock.

 _"_ _Whose phone is it?"_ asked Molly.

 _"_ _A woman's."_

 _"_ _Your girlfriend?"_

That sounded more like Molly.

 _"_ _You think she's my girlfriend because I'm X-raying her possessions?"_

Molly laughed nervously. Jim's heart burned. " _Well, we all do silly things,"_ she said.

" _Yes,"_ said Holmes. That was when Jim looked at him, instead, " _They_ _ **do,**_ _don't they?_ _ **Very**_ _silly."_

It had happened for barely a second, but Jim was certain of what he had seen. The ghost of a smile curled on his lips – poor, _poor_ Sherlock Holmes.

Well – at least Jim had an alternative should Irene lose. After all, the one thing that everyone could bargain on was Sherlock Holmes. And Molly would be better off without Jim, anyway. The other name on her arm was far more _palatable,_ as the world would know. Perhaps Sherlock would even have Mrs. Hooper's approval.

It was a good plan. It had Shakespearean _panache._ Molly would appreciate the literariness of the venture.

* * *

Irene lost.

And she did so with a certain amount of _panache_ herself, from what he had heard.

Well, at least she managed to kick up a fuss. He suspected Mycroft Holmes would be _paying attention to him_ sooner or later. And he suspected that gave Moran enough time to arrange everything.

What was left?

Little Holmes. The most charming of the Holmes siblings.

* * *

Gladiolas were impossible to find in Europe.

He wasn't idiotic enough to be like Irene. A calculated risk – but a risk, nonetheless.

Jim favoured his suit. It said what was needed.

"Back again, James?" asked little Holmes. Her blank, empty eyes surveyed him.

"What can I say?" said Jim, relaxing on the chair in front of the useless cell. "I can't keep away from you."

"You flatter me," she said emotionlessly. Little Holmes wasn't stupid – she saw the smug smile of self-satisfaction reeking on Jim Moriarty. "I heard Adler died again."

"Tragic," said Jim, popping a mint into his mouth.

"And your little Hooper?" continued Eurus.

"Oh, _honey,"_ said Jim Moriarty with his best, most _Moriarty_ grin. "You have no idea how games are played."

"Enlighten me," said Eurus. She seated herself directly opposite him.

"Little Holmes," said Jim slowly, leaning forward – his elbows rested on his thighs, feet parted, head slightly bent. "You're better off designing family dramas. Especially if you want the players to live by the time they reach you."

Eurus' head tilted to the side. "That's a sad threat for someone defending his lady love."

Jim chuckled. "You'd like Sherlock to live, wouldn't you? He will need her."

"I see what you're attempting, _Jimmy._ Sherlock is _sentimental_ enough to use Molly Hooper, no matter what other alternatives stand in front of him. He will not have her by the time I reach him. I do not need her."

"It's not her I'm threatening, dear. Although, it is sweet of you to think so."

Eurus leaned back on her chair.

"Poor, dear Sherlock," mused Jim. "Needs Molly Hooper. Might end up dead, with the game I have planned. There's a solution to this, of course – and that would be for me to die, and end the game. Let him live."

Eurus was silent.

"That would be an easy solution. Except, of course – Sherlock could still die. Thousands of possible little accidents, well-paid assassins – secrets, kept with the government. He'd die before his family reunion, too…"

She was gripping her chair.

"You told me the game would end with me."

"And I'm allowing you to let it," snarled Jim. "I won't use Redbeard. I don't need Redbeard. I won't bring him to you. I will end our game, and you can play yours."

"And leave Molly Hooper alone," finished Eurus.

" _Protect_ her," amended Jim. "Not simply to leave her alone. You will make sure she lives. It does not matter what it takes."

"I'm hardly an ideal candidate," Eurus said with a grin.

"No one is a candidate ideal enough," said Jim shortly, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose since you idiots are present, I will make do with what I have."

"And you're choosing this, are you, Jimmy?" asked Eurus. "You're choosing death."

"It's been fun, Little Holmes. But I'm _bored."_

"There are alternatives."

"Oh, I'm counting on it."

Eurus Holmes had a look on her face that Jim had never seen before. He wanted to laugh.

She was confused.

"You'll figure it out, eventually, dear," said Jim. "Unwrap that bandage, maybe it's staring you in the face – or in the arm, whichever you prefer. This might even be a gift for you. You can be so _terribly_ creative with what you do end up doing with Molly Hooper, now that you haven't been allowed to kill her."

Having the last word in a conversation with Eurus Holmes was distinctly satisfying.

* * *

There were two names on every arm. Well, that was what was expected.

Someone you were supposed to hate. Someone you were supposed to love.

Most people hated and loved both names in equal measure.

Jim Moriarty had originally had the unique advantage of wanting both destroyed.

Now, he had the unique advantage of choosing them both. It wasn't a grand gesture, it wasn't something he had to do "for their good." It was his own selfishness. Molly had to live, and for that, Eurus would accept nothing less than his non-interference with Sherlock. For that to happen, one of them would have to be dead.

And Jim was bored. He would like to sleep.

It might even be restful. Maybe hell had a choice _Sudoku_ booklet.

Besides, he had a very strong hunch. And his hunches were normally either catastrophically right, or catastrophically wrong.

Sherlock should hope it's the first.

* * *

 **Irene Adler**

Terribly sorry, darling. Had to cut and run.

 **Molly Hooper**

Oh. That's sad :/

 **Irene Adler**

Don't worry about it. I'll be fine.

 **Molly Hooper**

Are you supposed to be dead again?

 **Irene Adler**

I think so. But you'd better keep me a secret ;)

 **Molly Hooper**

Hahaha. Okay, Irene.

Hey Irene?

 **Irene Adler**

Yes?

 **Molly Hooper**

Is Jim alright?

 **Irene Adler**

… I wouldn't know, Molly.

* * *

 **LOVE EVERYONE AND ALSO REVIEWS 3**


	13. That Out of Hell Leads Up to Light

**Heyy everyone! New chapter is UP. I mean, you know that already if you're reading this AN. Okay. I'm going to leave you guys to it!**

 **SMUT WARNING, JUST IN CASE.**

 **Guest: OMG DON'T DIE PLS.**

* * *

 _Four months later_

Moran had heard the chatter. It was… encouraging.

A Jim Moriarty who cared for _someone_ was a Jim Moriarty not to be touched, it seems. Low level chatter meant nothing, but the higher ups seemed to have a tacit agreement. Not all of them were important enough, but Moran had the word passed around just enough for everyone to understand.

Molly Hooper had virtual armour at all times. No one could hurt her.

Not all of them knew her identity, and Moran was not idiotic enough to let the word become a challenge. It was simply an agreement. Because the world would burn if Jim Moriarty should choose it to, at this point – and no one would want that. Things had been programmed, identities that could be released without the supervision from Moriarty, even Moran had been given assignments which he had no option but to carry out, should anything go wrong.

The Boss intended to die. Moran could sense this – he wasn't completely stupid. Molly Hooper would become irrelevant – except to those who would continue to protect her. And Moran would have a lifelong job staying out of Sherlock Holmes' way – but keeping in Molly's.

Working for Moriarty had been one of the better gigs of his career. This one, on the other hand, was perhaps going to be the strangest one of them all.

* * *

Molly was lying on the sofa, her head hanging upside down while her legs dangled on the headboard.

It had been a funny few weeks, she would think. January had frozen over, eventually blurring into February. She'd been reading a lot more recently – lots of different kinds of books. Not limiting herself to fantasy. She'd even given a glance at the self help books everyone kept harping about, and found them all irritating beyond measure. She'd been watching more TV. She had been writing papers.

She was, at the moment, taking a moment.

Her Mum was much better now, of course, but she still sometimes looked rather blank. Molly was seriously considering getting a new apartment, shifting her mother in with her. They'd been… getting along a bit better.

For Christmas, Molly's mum had gotten her a bright pink sweater, patterned obnoxiously with as many white flowers as possible. Molly was rather fond of it.

She turned her head to the side.

She sometimes wondered what Jim was doing.

* * *

Meanwhile, Jim was locked in a cell on Mycroft Holmes' orders – diligently painting for Sherlock's attention on every part of it.

* * *

May was a good time for Molly and Mum to settle down at home. Molly felt more comfortable in the house now, as she was curled up on the sofa, reading.

"Molly, would you like some tea?" asked Mum.

"Sure, Mum," said Molly, without looking up from her book.

There was a sound of the kettle whistling. Her Mum pottered about in the kitchen and Molly continued reading quietly.

Mum handed her a mug when she came out. "Thanks, Mum," murmured Molly.

"So, how's work?" asked Mum, sipping her tea.

"Okay," said Molly, keeping her book away. "Interesting cases these days."

Her Mum nodded. That was some character development.

"Molly?" said her Mum tentatively.

"Hmm?"

"Molly – I – um, well. I just wanted you to know that I do love you."

Molly paused. "Oh, mo-"

"I'm not just _saying_ it," continued Mum.

Molly looked at her mother closely. Mum half smiled, very briefly.

"Okay," said Molly.

"Okay," said Mum.

Molly tried to return to her book, but her brain was reeling.

"So, I heard that criminal is going to trial."

"Which one?" asked Molly.

"Funny name – Moriarty, I think."

Molly blushed. "Yeah, he is."

"Wasn't he your Sherlock Holmes' case?" prodded Mum.

"Um – in a manner of speaking, yes," said Molly, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers.

Her mother's eyes narrowed.

"You aren't involved in this in any way, are you?" she asked.

"No! _No,"_ said Molly defensively. "Absolutely not. I barely know him. I've been asked to – well, _testify –_ but that's only because he fooled me. You remember, _Jim_ from IT?"

"That was him?" continued her mother.

Molly nodded.

"Heaven help us," murmured Mum.

Molly twiddled her thumbs.

"Anyway!" she said enthusiastically. "How about some lunch?"

Molly returned home, curling up tightly on the sofa.

* * *

She'd been seeing the news reports. They weren't encouraging. Sherlock was set to testify against Moriarty, and so was she. She wasn't entirely sure what she was supposed to say.

 _Yes, hi, this man seduced me and made me fall in love with him. I was quite angsty over the entire affair, until I realised I loved him – after which I decided not to pay attention to it. Oh – he's also very fond of lemon tarts._

Yeah. That would go well.

Molly wished everything would be a bit quiet. She wished she could have a moment, where she didn't feel like the world around her was falling apart – where her heart was collapsing with the weight of _being._

She didn't know what was expected of her.

It was alright. The focus would be on Sherlock. No one would be looking at her. Except for her mother, perhaps – and Meena.

The bell rang.

Molly groaned, getting up from the sofa. She peeked into the keyhole, to find a Meena standing outside, looking windwashed and beanie-ed. Meena had that look about her, again, the one where she was dressed in red and as if it could rain at any minute.

Molly opened the door.

"Hello," said Meena with a smile.

Molly went inside, collapsing on the sofa again.

"What's up?" asked Molly. "You come over entirely too much, do you know?"

"I know," said Meena, shutting the door behind her. She took off her beanie and her scarf, her coat and shook her head.

She looked fresh – in a rather _summer_ way. She was reminding Molly of memories, again.

"Why're you here?" asked Molly suspiciously. "If it's about the trail –"

Meena laughed. "No. Well, in a way, I suppose."

Molly looked even more suspicious.

"Budge up," laughed Meena. Meena settled down next to Molly.

"What's going on?" asked Molly.

"Do you remember Harry Wiseman?" asked Meena slowly.

"Yeah," said Molly slowly. "He was in your chemistry lab, wasn't he?"

"Yeah," nodded Meena. She unbuttoned her cuff. "We weren't _friends,_ as such. I think we could have been, had we tried."

And then Meena did something Molly had _never_ seen her do. She pushed her sleeve upwards, carefully showing Molly the name inscribed on the wrist. The names were _small,_ tiny things – they didn't take up that much space on your wrist. Largely, they depended on the handwriting of your "soulmate." Harry must have had small handwriting, because his name was a tiny scrawl.

Molly was so shocked, she didn't know what to say.

"I know," said Meena.

"But why didn't you –"

Meena smiled again, sadly. "I didn't want to take the chance. My parents – you know, they come from India. In India, it doesn't matter what your name is – you marry according to caste, or religion, or economics. Which was what happened in England as well, up until the Protestant Reformation. In any case – I didn't want to take any chances, since we make such a big deal of the names. My parents – they had an arranged marriage, and they're… fine. I suppose they're okay with each other. And sometimes – I _wondered."_

Molly looked horrified.

"You know all this," Meena laughed. "The thing is – I never wanted to give the names any power over me. Not once. Not ever. I did what was needed to ignore them. In a way, I sort of gave them power over me."

"Oh, Meena –" began Molly.

"I'm not done," continued Meena. "So. My other name –"

"Is it Lizzie?" asked Molly, in a hushed voice.

"I don't know," said Meena lightly.

"What?" asked Molly.

"I never looked. The name on my wrist is tiny – and I've seen a small peek of it at times. I know the letter _E_ is there somewhere. I trained myself to not look. I've kept it under wraps forever. I've never seen it. It could be Lizzie – it could be you. It could be anyone."

Molly's mouth was wide open.

"So much about you makes sense suddenly," she whispered.

"I know," said Meena. "The thing I wanted to tell you, Molly – is that this is a choice."

"What?"

"It's our choice. It's our choice to give it power, it's our choice to not give it power. It's our choice – what we fall in love with, and what we decide to stay with. It's our choice, and I want you to know that you should always choose yourself."

"Meaning?" asked Molly.

"Choose what makes you happy. If it's the Mastermind, I'm sure you'll figure it out. If it's the detective, we'll figure it out. No matter what happens, Molly – I want you to know that I love you."

Molly's eyes, which had been burning for a while, pricked her with tears.

"I do," said Meena. "It's very easy to love you, Molly. And even if you have no one else, you will have me. I will always be willing to try for you. To be there for you. I want you to know that. I know you've been feeling very lonely in the last few months, and you don't know how to continue without collapsing or whatever the new angsty sentiment is – but I want you to know that I _am_ there. I will be listening."

"O-okay," blubbered Molly.

"Don't cry, Molly," said Meena cheerfully.

"Fuck you," said Molly, still crying. "You – you are such a _moron._ You come in – with your fucking – _speech._ And then say "don't cry!" _Fuck you."_

Meena winked.

"So – Jim's trial," said Meena.

Molly looked away.

"What are you thinking?" asked Meena gently.

"I miss him," she confessed. Her voice still sounded watery.

"I know," said Meena. "But don't worry. We'll plan game nights again, now that your Mum is on the mend."

Molly gripped Meena's hand. "Thanks, Meena," she murmured.

"Not a problem," Meena said.

"I love you too," added Molly.

"Disgusting," said Meena.

Molly laughed with a hiccough.

* * *

 **Irene Adler**

Currently in America. Would you like some new clothes from here? I'm afraid Americans don't have much of a taste.

 **Molly Hooper**

No, I don't want clothes, Irene. But! If you can get your hands on _The Boss –_ some author called Amanda.

 **Irene Adler**

… Molly. I just looked it up. This sounds kinky.

 **Molly Hooper**

It is. What were you expecting. It's called _The Boss._

 **Irene Adler**

You are a bundle of surprises, aren't you? Why couldn't you just order it?

 **Molly Hooper**

Shipping was _really_ expensive. But since you're there J

 **Irene Adler**

Fine, Hooper. Just this once. I will indulge your sinful pleasures.

 **Molly Hooper**

Ho, ho, ho. Look who is talking.

 **Irene Adler**

Me? I am a pure snowflake, fresh off the Himalayas.

 **Molly Hooper**

Sure, Irene.

* * *

"Doctor Hooper," said the Prosecutor.

Molly smiled nervously.

Jim was watching her, and Molly looked at him once, before refocusing on the Prosecutor. Sherlock wasn't looking at her, tapping away furiously at his phone.

"When did you meet Jim Moriarty?"

"Um," said Molly. "March? March, I should say."

"You're certain," continued to Prosecutor.

"Oh, yes," said Molly, nodding vigorously. She looked at Jim again, and frowned. "I remember because I was chatting with Meena, and I made a rather bad joke about how Jim _April fooled_ me – since, um – you know – I found out he was Jim Moriarty on the first of April."

An odd thing happened. Jim Moriarty snorted with laughter. Sherlock looked up.

Molly glared at Jim.

"Yes," she said. "March."

"And what did you know him as?"

"Jim from IT," rattled Molly. "Nothing – _happened."_

"I'm sure, ma'am. And you believe the claims that this man is a criminal mastermind?"

"Yes," said Molly, nodding.

Jim raised his eyebrows at her.

"And why's that?" asked the prosecutor.

Molly blushed. "Sherlock says so. Sherlock has never been wrong."

Sherlock looked smug, while Jim pretended to look hurt. Molly rolled her eyes.

The prosecutor continued with her very boring testimony for another ten minutes. Molly found that the defense could blow holes in whatever she said, despite it being minimal. She didn't care – she was certain that Jim Moriarty would be getting out scot free.

* * *

September twentieth was when the verdict came out. There was nothing surprising about it. Molly wondered, almost idly, if Jim would be coming to meet her. If she expected it to happen – he may not. And she desperately wanted him to come.

* * *

But she was also _angry._

She hadn't seen Jim in – in – nearly a _year._ A year.

God, she'd missed him. She'd missed his smile – the scars on his body, the way he spoke. The way he teased her. The way he touched his hair unconsciously when he was thinking, at times.

And the sad thing was – he was a habit. A habit she couldn't ignore. It came and went, but it lay at the back of her head.

And heaven help her, she had _missed_ it.

* * *

She was lying in bed, looking at the ceiling.

She heard something moving outside, in her living room. Her eyes shut, she felt her way to her slippers. She took off her covers, and creeped outside softly.

Toby flicked his tail at her.

"Oh," she said. "Should have known."

"Yes," responded a snarl. "You should have known."

Molly jumped.

Her heart beating fit to power a few generators, she turned on the light.

Jim Moriarty sat in front of her, in royal glory. In his hand, he clutched a Sudoku booklet. The sofa gave his position a sort of dignity that she was certain it did not give her. His perfect, crisp Westwood was paired with a shirt from Saville Row, his nine hundred pound shoes covered feet that were planted far apart.

"Hello, dearest," he said menacingly.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" asked Molly.

"No, you're beyond that now," he said. "Why, _darling,_ did you testify?"

"Was I not supposed to?" asked Molly, at a loss.

"I'd rather not have you on any _radars."_

"Then you shouldn't have _slept_ with me," said Molly, beginning to feel angry. "And where _were_ you, anyway? You've been gone a _year."_

"Did you think I would call everyday? Make sure you knew where I was?" sneered Jim.

"I would have liked _some_ consideration," said Molly. "And don't you _dare_ make excuses. I _deserve_ explanations."

"That would imply I _cared,"_ said Jim. "Which I _don't."_

"Who do you think you're fooling?" demanded Molly. She stepped forward, feeling bold in the belief that this was not going to happen again.

"I don't need to _fool_ idiotic Molly Hooper," said Jim, getting up as well.

" _Stop,"_ she whispered.

"You thought I would come here, that we would be together? That I wanted to be with you?" Jim said, his voice terribly, _terribly_ soft. Gentle.

"Why did you come here?" asked Molly finally.

"How do you know it wasn't to kill you? I sometimes think you forget I can do that, Molly Hooper."

Molly glared. "So could a _car crash._ So could a badly decided _seating arrangement._ So could a _dedicated duck._ You're not _special."_

"Neither are _you,"_ Jim said, gritting his teeth.

Molly took a breath. "I can tell when you want something. Stop saying things to manipulate me. What do you want? Do you want to hurt me? To make me feel miserable, to make me think that I will come out lesser from this conversation?"

"Look at how _smart_ you got, Margaret Elizabeth Hooper," said Jim. His breath ghosted her lips, since he was standing so terribly close to her. She was looking up at him, unable to tear away.

"I learned from the _best,"_ she said.

"I'm _flattered,"_ said Jim.

"Give me permission," whispered Molly.

He quirked his eyebrow.

"To kiss you. I want permission."

"And what will you do with that permission?" he said. "I doubt you've ever had angry sex."

"That's an _assumption."_

"Show me, Molly Hooper. Show me how _wrong_ I am."

Her lips covered his almost instantly. Unthinkingly. As if she had been waiting for the invitation since the beginning. She felt his teeth clacking with hers at the force of the kiss - His hands touched her back, reaching the neckline of her pyjamas. Without warning, he tore the T-shirt she was wearing, straight off her back.

"I fucking _liked_ that T-shirt," breathed Molly, pushing him away.

"Write a _petition,"_ said Jim, resuming the kiss. Unable to scold him, she appreciated his fingers on her breasts – cupping one and nearly scratching it with his nails.

She undid his shirt buttons, unconcerned – for once – about the cost of the shirt. Her fingers traced his body – the defined, perfect muscles, with scars that covered almost every inch of him. His teeth almost bit into her lips, and she could feel the rawness of the kiss.

Jim slid to his knees, pulling down her pyjamas with too much force. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. "The bedroom," she gasped.

"No," he commanded.

"Stop ordering me," she said.

"Then _behave,"_ he snarled. Molly fell to the floor as he pushed her down – and she squealed.

He crawled above her, his hands firmly on her wrists. Across the length of her, there was nothing more than Jim. Jim, _Jim, Jim._

" _No!"_ she said.

She got up, flipping him to his back and jumping over him. "You – _do not –"_ she undid his belt, while he smiled in an infuriatingly lazy way, " _Do_ this!" she declared, pulling off the belt.

"Teach me a lesson, dearest," said Jim. "What am I?"

She didn't say anything, taking off his pants. His briefs were plain, white. Molly could see the erection that he had been concealing. Hands artlessly got rid of the briefs as well – unconcerned with the finesse of sex, unconcerned with tantalisation or effort.

"What am I?" asked Jim.

She mounted him then, looking directly into his eyes.

"You're a _monster,"_ she said, thrusting into him.

"You're _horrible."_

Thrust.

"Dramatic."

Thrust.

"Awful."

Thrust.

" _Cruel_."

And with those words, Jim Moriarty looked almost undone. Molly looked down at him – her hands, on his shoulders.

" _Why,"_ she thrust into him, with as much force as she could. "Are." she thrust again. "You." thrust. "Here?" Thrust.

Jim smiled at her. "Impressive, dearest," he said. "But now – it's my turn."

And before Molly knew it, she was flipped over again – on her stomach. She made a move to turn over, but Jim did not let her.

Out of nowhere, she felt a tie snake around her wrists. She attempted to turn over, to look at Jim – to – to – to –

Ask for _more._

"Patience," he said.

"You _fucker,"_ Molly nearly sobbed.

He chuckled.

Jim Moriarty rocked into her, again, and again, and again – until every part of her was screaming. She felt her body tense up, higher, and higher, and even higher – until there was nothing left but Jim – inside her. She could distantly hear the sound of her body slamming repeatedly against the carpeted floor, created muffled _thumps._

And she climaxed _violently._

The sweat on her forehead did nothing for her when Jim rolled off her. She was glad she had carpeted floors, or this would have been an uncomfortable hardwood adventure.

"I hate you," Molly whispered.

Jim's fingers ran the length of her arm. He didn't say anything.

Without saying a word, he got up, undid the tie around her wrists, and scooped her into his arms. Molly tried protesting, but she was hardly in a shape to think straight.

He put her down on her bed carefully. Molly got up in the bed almost immediately – because Jim made a move to leave.

"I don't suppose you think you're really _leaving?"_ she asked.

"People to meet, dearest," he said.

"Bullshit," said Molly definitively.

"I suppose you want me to stay? Make breakfast?"

"Why is that so outside the realm of possibility?" asked Molly. "If you want, _I'll_ make breakfast. I don't fancy your omelettes, anyway."

"Liar," said Jim good-humouredly.

"Don't go," she said.

Jim reached for her then. His hand touched her cheek, his lips pressing themselves onto hers.

She sighed softly. "I love you," she whispered.

Jim's lips paused. He backed out, carefully surveying her face. Molly blushed a bright, bright red – since she hadn't realised what she had been saying until it had been said.

"What a terrible mistake," he said quietly. And then he kissed her again. Molly wrapped her arms around his neck. He climbed into the bed again, his body arched over hers as he kissed her. His lips peppered her with kisses till her collar bone, fingers touching her softly on her hips.

"Say it again," he whispered.

"What?" Molly mumbled against his lips.

Jim positioned himself over her. This time, instead of slamming in, he moved inside her.

"Say it again," he repeated.

Molly's eyes became wide, shaped like coins.

Jim Moriarty rocked inside her, one slow thrust at a time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"Are you sure?" she asked, shocked.

He didn't say anything, choosing to kiss her instead. Molly felt his tongue swipe against her teeth.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear.

Jim Moriarty came at those words, loosing control of himself – his face contorting inexplicably, terribly, _beautifully._

"I love you," she said again.

His fingers laced against her's, digging into the mattress.

"I love you," she said finally, as she came as well.

His body shuddered as he finished.

Jim turned, lying down next to her in perfect silence while Molly's brain reeled.

She stared at the ceiling, unable to tell her mind to shut up.

"Stop it, Molly," he ordered her. "Go to sleep."

"And what will you do?" questioned Molly harshly. "Get killed?"

"That _is_ the idea."

"Not funny, Jim," said Molly.

They didn't say anything for a moment.

"Jim? Do you think we don't exist?"

Jim's eye opened briefly.

"What," he stated.

"Well, you won't let me stress out, and I can't sleep. Let's ponder the mysteries of the universe," said Molly.

"No," said Jim.

"You're no fun," said Molly. She twirled her hair between her thumb and forefinger. "Do you know, Meena says fairytales are propaganda for heterosexual soulmates. And I agree – obviously, fairytales often echo the dominant discourse. But since they are _folk_ tales, you could also say that there is an element of transgression in them."

"Molly," said Jim.

"Hmm?"

"Go to bed."

"But it's _true._ You could say that they transgress things, right?"

Then Jim did something very odd. He reached across the bed, dragged Molly into his arms, and held her.

"What?" asked Molly, bemused.

"You weren't sleeping. This ought to shut you up," he said.

Molly smiled.

It was impossible not to feel sleepy with Jim's arms encasing her.

* * *

Sunlight filtered into her room. Molly woke up, perfectly aware of Jim still tightly holding her.

She could feel his fingers tracing her body. It was particularly _aimless –_ particularly _important._

Molly looked up at him.

"Would you like breakfast?" she asked softly.

"No," he said.

"Are you still going?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What if I don't want you dead?" she asked.

"Cottoned on, have you?" he asked.

"Bit obvious," she grinned. "I don't want you dead, Jim."

"I know," he said. "Nevertheless."

She turned to his chest again. "Why?" she asked.

"Because it has to happen," he said harshly.

Molly didn't say anything. She shut her eyes. "You know I'd choose you?"

"Then you're an idiot," he said.

"That's fine," she said. "I still would. Over him. Any day."

Jim's fingers continued to trace patterns on her back.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," she repeated.

Jim untangled himself from her, carefully moving to the living room – where his clothes lay crumpled.

Molly followed him outside. She watched him put on his shirt, and then his pants. She reached for him, carefully doing up the buttons one by one. She picked up the tie from the floor, looping it around his neck, with a single Windsor knot.

Jim grasped his jacket.

Molly flicked away invisible lint from his suit, neatened the collar, and looked up at him.

"I'd choose you," she said finally.

Jim Moriarty didn't respond. He wore his jacket, walking out of the apartment deliberately.

* * *

 **Love reviews! Concrit too 3**


	14. The Dark Descent, and Up to Reascend

**Last chapter, y'all.**

 **I have loved writing this fic.**

 **There's only an epilogue left.**

 **Oh: Angst warning.**

* * *

 **Dedicated duck: Thank you so much! I love you for this review. Molly deserves the world 3**

 **Guest: Hope you slept well! Thank you**

* * *

He didn't think he had that many options.

Once the terrace of Barts was entered, there were a diminishing number of things he _could_ do. The ideal, of course, would be to avoid death. At this point, however, it seemed unlikely. The real question was whom he would call. Who would be his priest in this moment of mortal repentance?

He could call Molly.

Molly would be an easy one to call – her brows would furrow, her concern available for him to exploit. Her eyes had this annoying quality of making him think of everything he was doing wrong. His chest ached at the thought of calling her before death.

Sherlock snorted. Death had made him a romantic.

* * *

 _She looks tired._

Sherlock shook the thought out of his head. Now was not the time to ponder the idiotic doings of Molly Hooper – and everything that happened in her life.

 _She's been keeping things from you._

Sherlock snorted at the thought.

He was sure Molly Hooper had been keeping secrets, but he'd let her. It was one of those things he gave Molly Hooper, because of the slightly unique position she had in his life – as one of his oldest… acquaintances.

"Molly!"

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out."

"No, you're not," he commanded imperiously.

"I've got a lunch date," she said quickly.

Old friend. School friend. Someone she was comfortable with, she didn't bother dressing up for it. She liked him, whoever it was.

"Cancel it. You're having lunch with me."

"What?"

"Need your help. It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty," he added with a little relish.

"It's Moriarty?'

"Course its Moriarty."

Something strange happened – Molly Hooper had this tendency, when she was preparing for the little battles of her life, to grip her bag – or her hands – or her sweater – with a tiny, tiny little tug. She drew back a little, her pony tail swished just enough for him to narrow his eyes.

"Er – Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it."

 _Interesting._

She wasn't lying. She was hiding something – by omission.

"Yes, and then he stole the crown jewels, broke into the bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

As the door swung behind him, he could swear he heard her say a very soft, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

* * *

"Alkaline," said the soft voice at his elbow.

"Thank you, John," he said distractedly.

"Molly," she corrected with resignation.

"Yes."

Molly turned away, and Sherlock briefly considered looking at her – or speaking to her, for a small second. Then his attention was dragged back to the work.

 _Chalk._

 _Asphalt._

 _Brick Dust._

 _Vegetation._

He was muttering to himself, and he knew it.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you?'" she said. Her voice repeatedly anchored him to the real world, continuously bringing him to a reality that he had no interest in appreciating.

"You said, 'I owe you,'" she soldiered on. "You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing," he said shortly. "Mental note."

He didn't need Molly looking at him, not at the moment. Writing him, carefully – embroidering the edges of his canvas with her floral patterns.

"You're a bit like me dad. He's dead."

She was so cautious – every touch, a gentle pry at him – no expectations, none.

"Molly," he said cuttingly – attempting to stop her, before she got too far. She'd done it before, and he believed wholeheartedly in her ability to do it again. She was dangerous, in that way – finding him when he had over dosed, forcing him through rehab – making sure he had cases and experiments – all the while, peering into him, as if he were a slide under a microscope.

The more uncomfortable part of him reminded him that that was how he made everyone feel.

" _You_ look sad," she ploughed on. "When you think he can't see you."

Sherlock looked up at John.

It was easy to be friends with John. To fight for John. To be loyal to John.

"Are you okay?"

He attempted to answer her, but she stopped him –

"And don't just say you are, because I know what that means – looking sad when you think no one can see you."

He had to stop her. Before she saw too much.

" _You_ can see me."

"I don't count."

She'd seen too much.

* * *

Jim smiled.

He'd been causing a little unease in the ranks, as reported by Moran. He wasn't unstable, but he'd become a calmer. He had always wondered if that frightened people more – and it seems it did. A good technique to employ, if he wasn't planning on his death.

Every time he shut his eyes, Molly appeared in front of him. The fluttering reality of her existence – the plaintive, small smiles, her brown hair. It was impossible to rid himself of her.

By far, the most entrancing game he had played. It would be good to die on this note – knowing that Molly Hooper hadn't won, no – she'd simply made him realise the repercussions of gaming.

Sherlock would know.

* * *

If anyone asked Molly, the whole situation was ridiculous.

"Criminal masterminds and consulting detectives are _drama queens,"_ she swore to herself.

It was absurd. There they were, playing God in a situation where nothing was to happen except the death of a very mortal man. She knew Jim intended to die, and she knew she wanted to prevent it – but unlike Sherlock, she knew he won't be forthcoming at all. Sherlock would come to her, because he wanted to win.

Jim wanted to fucking _die._

Not that she hadn't tried. She'd tried to call him, tried to speak to Moran. She'd called Irene, who had laughed – albeit, a little sadly.

She was _trying._

It wasn't _her_ fault people tried to be so muttonheaded. She was sure there was a larger cause or something, or Jim wouldn't be wanting to die. It was a calculated decision – he wasn't _impulsive,_ much as everyone liked to believe the opposite. She was sure someone had done something to anger him – threatened Sherlock, perhaps. It had to be someone who was yet _another_ super genius, and frankly, Molly had _had_ it with super geniuses.

 _Maybe someone threatened you._

She told herself to shut up.

* * *

It was spotless in the lab. Molly always made sure it was.

 _It's usually subtext._

That's what John had said before punching him. Sherlock's subtext said something along the lines of being "punched in the face."

What was Jim Moriarty trying to say?

It was an early game. What did Sherlock feel when he saw Moriarty? What did he want to do?

It didn't – it didn't matter. Right now, everything Jim Moriarty said simply implied a one word command: _burn._ He could not afford to burn, not when everyone was going to burn with him.

"You're wrong, you know."

She gasped – turned around quickly. Her fingers grasped the strap of her bag, her ridiculous jumper jarring in the darkness.

"You _do_ count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you."

Of course he had. It was impossible not to. She looked even more surprised – but oddly determined.

"But you _were_ right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong."

Molly gripped her bag – that little sign she made, when she was about to become warrior.

"Molly, I think I am going to die."

"What do you need?" Her body was tensing up again, mentally regrouping – planning battles.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am – would you still want to help me?"

She looked up at him, her eyes boring into him.

"What do you need?"

Sherlock had to be honest right now. "You."

* * *

He wore his suit, his perfect, immaculate suit.

He clipped his tie carefully, the silver shaped bone glinting in the light.

And now -

To convince Sherlock Holmes.

For death.

To fall.

For _her._

* * *

It had been – so far – strange.

Jim Moriarty had been Jim Moriarty, of course, but some part of Sherlock couldn't quite place what was different. Something in the beast was off, something in the dragon was different – something that he couldn't pinpoint.

Oh, Sherlock was more convinced than ever of his plan. It was almost certain that Moriarty had prepared for his death.

John would be sad.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort," advised Moriarty.

Sherlock turned away, pacing distractedly. He didn't quite know what to make of this – he could die now, this minute – and Molly would resurrect him. She would perform a small miracle and bring back a dead man from his grave.

 _Moriarty would know._

Sherlock didn't like this.

As far as he was concerned, there were two secrets on the rooftop. Whatever Moriarty was keeping from him, and what he was attempting to protect. He had a nagging suspicion that Moriarty _knew._

"Go on. For me."

What was he _playing?_

"Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase?" begged Moriarty.

Frustrated, Sherlock gripped Moriarty by the collar, dragging him to the edge of the building. Jim looked unconcerned – if a little interested.

"You're insane."

"You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock nearly did it in that minute. Nearly tossed Moriarty's mortal body off the building.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock frowns.

Moriarty's voice was strange during threats. Savage, but terribly intimate. "Your friends will die if you don't."

* * *

It wasn't as dramatic as his life flashing before his eyes. But Sherlock looked down from the building, thinking of John Watson. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade.

It was a mercy he had few friends.

He didn't entirely know what Moriarty was playing at – even now. There was some part of the game that had been kept secret from him, something that he was not sure of. If Sherlock's secret was Molly Hooper – what other cards had Moriarty entered with?

Why was he not playing them?

Sherlock started laughing.

"What?"

He had to find out what was being kept from him. He had to know. So he continued to laugh.

"What is it?" asked Moriarty angrily. "What did I miss?"

" _You're_ not going to do it?" asked Sherlock, hopping off the ledge. "So the killers _can_ be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number."

Despite having no cards left, Sherlock circled Moriarty. He had his secrets, but he needed to know what was kept from him.

"I don't have to die… _If I've got you_."

"Oh!" Moriarty laughed, delighted. He sounded almost relieved. "You think _you_ can _make_ me stop the order? You think _you_ can make me do that?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "So do you."

Moriarty was amused again. "Sherlock your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" said Sherlock, viciously. He had to _know_ he had to _know_ he had to _know – "_ I am you. Prepared to do anything; prepared to burn – prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. you want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint."

"Naaah," said Moriarty. "You _talk_ big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock was crackling with a suppressed – _something –_ "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one _second_ that I am one of them."

Then Moriarty did something strange.

He looked serene.

It was coming – whatever had been kept from him.

He smiled again, but not in that – _insane_ way. He was – he was smiling, without expecting more. It was deeply disconcerting. Sherlock stood his ground firmly.

"If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

It was salaciously said, as everything with Moriarty was. But Sherlock's eyes flicked downward, to Moriarty's fingers, which unbuttoned his cuffs. Moriarty lifted the cuff delicately, softly, cautiously – he saw half his name peer from behind the sleeve, the cursive decorating Moriarty's wrist: _Sherlock._

Very well. If that is what it took.

He undid his cuff button, ripping it savagely behind. The name shown ominously in the sunlight, over the faded building – as bright and black as Moriarty himself: _Jim Moriarty._

Moriarty laughed. "Not that one, my dear, although I am flattered. I already knew, so you needn't worry – you didn't have to make so passionate a declaration."

Sherlock's face was impassive.

"The _other_ one."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Come on, Sherlock," whispered Moriarty.

"You first," said Sherlock stonily.

"Oh, that gives it away. I already _know,_ Sherlock. I want you to show me."

Sherlock undid his second button carefully. He was slower this time, folding his sleeve upward.

 _Molly Hooper_

Jim Moriarty retreated perceptibly, his eyes fluttering briefly. "Yes. You're not an angel, Sherlock Holmes. You're me."

"Your turn," said Sherlock, his voice rough.

"Bless you," said Jim quietly. He undid his button, reached for Sherlock's hand. "Between you and me, you have a better chance. Her thighs are one of her sweet spots."

For the first time, Sherlock felt properly afraid. As Sherlock grasped his hand, determined to see the truth, Moriarty pulled him forward – using his other hand to pull out his concealed revolver.

Jim Moriarty fell backwards, the gun shot ringing true and strong – through him, through his heart. The last smile plastered on his face like some grim reminder of everything that Sherlock had lost in that second.

He had to _know._

 _Her thighs are one of her sweet spots._

Sherlock gripped his sleeves, ignoring the blood.

 _You have a better chance._

He nearly tore away the sleeve.

 _You're me._

In the bright sunlight, in a pool of blood, Molly Hooper's name was shone on James Moriarty's wrist. Her cramped handwriting almost impossible not to mistake.

* * *

 **One more epilogue left, friends.**

 **Don't worry, the ending will not be what you expect it to be.**


	15. Epilogue

**I.**

 **Hmm.**

 **I caused a lot of heartbreak in the last chap, didn't I?**

 **I don't know how to kind of end this thing, because it's been quite a constant for nearly a year. I became friends with Ronnie through this, which is one of the most important friendships of my writing life. I MADE SO MANY FRIENDS THROUGH THIS. I think this is the first fic in a long time that made me feel like I was part of a writing community again.**

 **I've LOVED writing this. I was so unsure of Jim, so conscious of everything that came out of Irene's mouth - this was brand new territory for me. The line between trash and not trash, romantic and not. It was endlessly fun. And you guys just made it better, because I had so much fun with it.**

 **The funny thing is, even though it's such a trashy story with all the trashy elements - soulmates, lemon tarts, gratuitous sex, gratuitous fluff - it's got so much INTENTION. Of all my stories, I think this is the most literary one in how much thought I put into the way the characters work and the world around them.**

 **It's also my most popular story. We hit 1000 kudos a while back, y'all, and I was unsure of what to say. Love y'all.**

 **Shoutout to all those regular reviewers that I adore, and obviously, shoutout to BurningLostStars and MY FAV ROOMMATE, ANUSHMITA. And obv Tingy even though she's been MIA for ages.**

 **So long, and thanks for all the fish.**

* * *

 **gUest: THANK YOU AND PLEASE HAVE MORE CHOCOLATES ON MY BEHALF**

* * *

 ** _Epilogue: Better to Reign in Hell Than to Serve in Heaven_**

Molly entered her apartment, without turning on the light. She'd kept her keys in the nearby bowl, and given a perfunctory scratch to Toby as he rubbed against her legs. She went to her closet, taking off her rain coat and putting it on a hanger.

Lucky it hadn't actually rained.

She spotted the box of letters she had stored carefully inside her closet. Unsure of why, and quite unwilling to do anything of any note – she pulled it out. Some of the letters had an embarrassing amount of tear stains on them, and she wasn't sure if she should be rereading them.

But it was the anniversary, she supposed. She'd ignored it for a while, but recent events… well, she could be excused for this year.

* * *

 _Dear_ _Jame_ _Jim_ _assho_

* * *

 _Fuck you, Jim Moriarty._

* * *

 _It's still hard, you know. I miss you._

* * *

 _Miss Hooper_

 _Thank you for cooperating so successfully over the Fall. I'm not entirely sure_ why _my brother made multiple decisions, but suffice to say that the operation worked in our favour. Ideally, I should not be updating you of my brother's location – however, I have enclosed a burner phone in the package. You are free to ask me in the code that I have attached to the letter. Once you have read this letter, please ensure that you destroy it._

 _M. Holmes_

* * *

 _Dear Molly,_

 _Mycroft has trouble saying things of importance, so I will do it for him: he's very grateful. Anything you ask, almost definitely will be provided._

 _Take care,_

 _Anthea_

* * *

 _I take it back. I hate you._

* * *

 _Please_

* * *

 _Dear Molly,_

 _I know you're very upset over the death of your detective and your criminal. Meena came around, asked me to write something, since you weren't answering your phone. It's odd to return to postal service after having not needed it for a while now – but I don't think I quite mind._

 _Send word when you're ready to talk. I've packed some jam tarts for you._

 _Love,_

 _Mum_

* * *

 _Molly,_

 _I took half the jam tarts. They're my right as much as yours, especially since you're using me as a mailman for your mother._

 _Take care, idiot._

 _I hate you,_

 _Meena_

* * *

 _Sherlock's leaving for his mission today._

* * *

 _Molly,_

 _I'll be leaving by morning._

 _I wanted to – to thank you, for everything you did. I'm not a very keen houseguest, or a very pleasant one – so I'm unsure if I left you with anything apart from irritation, but I endeavoured to try._

 _I'm grateful to you, Molly Hooper._

 _Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

 _Godhelp me._

* * *

 _Dear Jim,_

 _I don't think this is going to ever get easier._

 _What a fucking cliché._

 _Just like you. Do you feel happy knowing you died a cliché? A villain, falling from a height? Does that make you happy, that I'm sitting here, every night, trying to write letters to a dead man while Sherlock Holmes sleeps in my room from time to time? Is this the ending you had envisioned?_

 _God, I miss you._

 _Molly_

* * *

There were a series of small postcards from remote locations in the world, all signed identically: _you count._

Her card for the Watsons' wedding, along with multiple bills to cafes she had been to with Mrs. Hudson and Mary.

* * *

 _Molly,_

 _It seems I operate better with the written word._

 _I wanted to thank you, again – for everything you did. After the Magnussen business, I have been assigned to go to Eastern Europe for six months, on an intelligence mission. I most likely will not return to London._

 _You can't save me this time, Molly Hooper._

 _Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

 _Dear Doctor Hooper,_

 _The first time I had seen your face, I had been a little disappointed._

 _It didn't quite make sense to me; that you – the small, unassuming little woman held such a sway on matters that affected the whole of the criminal world – but there it was. I had to find a way to work around your death, which I had written off as a given – as a prophetic occurrence, an unnecessary accessory to a very stimulating experiment._

 _And Jim had put a spanner in the work. I'm not sure how, but I knew Molly Hooper had stronger armour than anyone alive. If you ever got mugged, the man might end up dead. I don't mean this with a sense of disrespect, but half the important members of the crime world know not to touch you. Why do you think Magnussen never did?_

 _I had to be creative._

 _It was interesting, being creative with my brother's emotions. Especially for someone as pointless as you, but then –_

 _I love you._

 _He had said it twice, which was an interesting touch. Curious, the way you had whispered it back. I didn't doubt you held a candle for James Moriarty – and I didn't doubt that my brother held something for you._

 _It was the most successful experiment of the night._

 _Too bad I've shut myself off from the more verbal world. I'd have something to say to Sherlock._

 _I'd have reams and reams to say to you, Molly Hooper._

 _With endless regard,_

 _Eurus Holmes_

* * *

Molly shut her eyes.

She had words with Sherlock, after that. Rather angry ones – but he deserved it. She returned to 221B with peace offerings, and he'd looked at her carefully, holding one delicately made scone.

They were a complicated duo, the two of them. She wasn't sure what she felt for him, but at times – he looked at her curiously, with an interest that she was unsure of. She'd assumed he had known about Jim, but it was her decision. It was her decision that if it was not Jim, it was certainly not going to be Sherlock. He seemed to have understood as much, even after the disaster that happened with her whispered ' _I love you.'_

She didn't have it in her to be with Sherlock, not in any possible way. The fall even made her more comfortable with how much she liked him, because she was sure she was never going to act on it.

And he would have to respect that.

She'd dated Tom for that reason. She'd loved him, although he looked like Sherlock. It was easier to date someone looking like Sherlock than someone who looked like Jim. She'd _liked_ Tom – the only reason they hadn't worked was because of his parents.

The posh Bakers hadn't approved of death-jokes-and-pathology Hooper. It was too good to be true, in any case. She'd never felt intensely happy around Tom, as she had with Jim – but she had felt content. Cheerful, for the most part. She didn't see why she should be denied small pleasures such as that. Simple happiness was nice.

And she didn't mind breaking up with him either. She was sad, but she grew out of it – just as she had with Sherlock, or Jim. Growing older, Molly had found, didn't seem to ever work in anyone's favour.

She kept the box away.

When she came outside, she stared at her coffee table.

Lying innocuously in the middle, was a small pastry box from _The Bun in the Oven._

She crossed the room, peeringin the dark at the box. When she opened the lid, there were lemon tarts inside, and a tiny yellowpost it stuck to the inside of the box.

* * *

 _Dearest,_

 _Good choice. I'm coming._

 _xoxo_

* * *

 **Finito.**

 **If it wasn't clear enough: Jim is alive.**

 **You're welcome.**


End file.
